Aemon the Dragonwolf
by gauchadeutsche
Summary: Set after ADWD/Season 6. Jon, King in the North, discovers his true identity and fights an ancient evil. Daenerys meets new allies and battles for the right to rule Westeros. Jaime Lannister seeks redemption, and the scattered Stark children return home, armed with new skills. Hybrid of book and show canon, ignores S7 and 8.
1. A Rose and A Mockingbird, Sandor I

Hi there! I started this series last year, but I posted it on Ao3 all out of order. Now that I went back and finished the first two parts, I can post it here in chronological order, as it was meant to be read. I don't own any of these characters, of course, and I'm posting this story for fun and 0 profit! I will be mixing show and book verse, though for the most part it will be show events with book characters.

 **AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 1 - A Rose and a Mockingbird**

 _Petyr Baelish has pledged the Knights of the Vale to the North, and wormed his way into Jon's council. Unfortunately for him, the Brotherhood Without Banners is coming to Winterfell, and among them is a man who can expose Littlefinger's worst deeds..._

 **Sandor I**

Winterfell was not what he'd expected. He'd expected the road to be difficult and freezing cold, his traveling companions unbearable, and the food sorely lacking. All had been true enough. But the ancient home of the Starks, which had been sacked, burned, and taken by enemies, looked strong and even inviting to Sandor's tired eyes.

Well, that was assuming they could get in, of course.

"Halt!" ordered a guard from above the gate. "Who goes there?"

"I am Lord Beric Dondarrion," replied the Lightning Lord. "This is the Brotherhood Without Banners. We seek an audience with the Starks."

"I will vouch for these men, if need be," spoke up Harwin the Northman. "I am Harwin, who rode south with Lord Stark and King Robert. Hullen was my father."

Suspicious gray eyes peered down at the ragtag group, but soon enough, the gates opened. No one seemed to recognize the Hound, not with his new scars and without his dog's head helm. He and his companions were divested of weapons, and sent to the main hall to await the new King in the North and his sister, the princess Sansa.

Sandor fought back a snort. The little bird had been so eager to marry Joffrey and become his princess, and in the end she'd become one on her own, by virtue of her father's blood. He wondered what she'd done in between, and if she'd kept any of her innocence. If the rumors around the Riverlands had any truth to them, the pretty songbird had become a murderous vampire-bat, and it was about time!

When the pair entered, the Hound thought he was seeing things. The Bastard of Winterfell and his sister looked like Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully come again. It was no wonder that Littlefinger trailed after Sansa Stark like a stallion after a mare in heat! And the boy, with his wolf cloak and his growing beard, looked more like Ned Stark than any of his trueborn sons ever had.

Princess Sansa's eyes roved over the group, widening at the sight of Dondarrion, and even further at the sight of Sandor himself.

"Ser Sandor!" she cried. "I did not think to see you again."

"Nor I you, little bird," he answered honestly.

"Sansa has told me that you offered to smuggle her from King's Landing," her brother spoke up, regarding Sandor with shrewd gray eyes. "Although she did not take the offer, I thank you all the same."

The Hound shrugged. It had been an impulsive and stupid offer; he'd have been caught at once with such a distinctive beauty on his horse, but she had refused him, making the point moot.

"May we have bread and salt, your grace?" asked the Lightning Lord.

Jon Snow waved at a nearby servant, and the girl approached with a small tray of bread. They each took a piece, savoring the taste after so much dried meat, stale black bread, and broths that were mostly water.

"Lord Beric, I see the rumors of your death were greatly exaggerated," the King in the North told their leader, raising an eyebrow.

Dondarrion flashed a quick, sardonic grin. "As much as the rumors of yours, your grace, and more besides. Thoros here is a servant of the Lord of Light, and has called me back from the void more times than I care to remember."

None missed how the king's face darkened at the mention of the Red God. The Red Woman in their midst, disguised as a black-haired squire with a bulbous nose, lowered her head.

"Then I am sorry for you," Jon Snow said at last, and obviously meant it. "What brings you to Winterfell?"

"Thoros has seen the danger beyond the Wall in his fires," the Lightning Lord explained. "Your father sent us to protect the realm from harm, and so we have done. But there is no danger greater than this, your grace."

"I agree," the king replied. "You must know, however, that fire—even the magical fire of your god—can only do so much. It will destroy wights, the servants of the Others. But the Others themselves can smother all fires; it takes dragonglass or Valyrian steel to defeat them."

"We know," said Thoros of Myr. "We have a few obsidian daggers and arrowheads among us," he added, showing the king the black dagger he kept at his belt. "On our journey north, we passed through the barrowlands. I had a dream the night we camped there, and we entered one of the barrows to find these."

The scattered Northmen around the room gasped.

"You entered a barrow?" Sansa asked, her blue eyes wide.

"Aye, Princess," Harwin spoke up. "I wouldn't have done for love or money, but Thoros said it was necessary. We encountered no surprises, in any case; we just took the weapons and ran for it."

That was an understatement. Harwin had bored them all stupid with northern superstitions, complaining loudly that he wanted no vengeful barrow kings coming after him, especially since he was a Stark man, and the Starks and the barrow kings had long been enemies. Sandor had been tempted to knock him unconscious and leave him in there, but the Red Witch had stopped him.

"Well then, I suppose you're as prepared as any of us. Are you headed for Castle Black?"

"If the Lord Commander will have us," replied Dondarrion.

"Any man who wishes to defend the Wall is a friend to us, and I know Lord Commander Tollett will agree," the King in the North declared. "I will have rooms prepared for you, and your mounts stabled and fed for the nonce. Be welcome to Winterfell, sers."

The Brotherhood bowed. It was easy to see which of them had been knights and which had been lowly peasant soldiers, Sandor thought. They sat at the nearest table, and Winterfell servants brought them food and drink. After such a journey, the simple meal in front of them looked a feast.

Sandor reached for the nearest plate of chicken, groaning in pleasure when the warm meat and spices hit his tongue. If there was one thing he remembered fondly about his first trip to Winterfell, it was the food.

He was so busy eating at first that he didn't notice the men and women filing into the hall. Most of them were grizzled Northmen, then one or two women, and a tiny little girl wearing a bear sigil. Finally, apart from the others, came a smirking face Sandor Clegane knew all too well.

"Littlefinger?" he asked, unable to comprehend how the brothel-keeper came to be here.

"Clegane, I did not expect to see you here," the sly Lord of Harrenhal replied. "I thought you'd be halfway to the Summer Isles by now."

The Hound snorted into his ale. "You know nothing, Baelish. What are _you_ doing here? Shouldn't you be whispering poison into the Arryn boy's ear?"

"Robert Arryn is perfectly safe in the Vale," Littlefinger replied smoothly, ignoring how the rest of the Brotherhood listened to their conversation. "I am a part of the King in the North's council, however, since the Vale and the North are once again allies."

"You are no one's ally but your own, whoremonger," Sandor told him viciously, a sinking feeling taking hold of his breast.

Littlefinger shrugged off the accusation with forced good humor. "Come now, Clegane, surely we can be friends? We are all in the North now, far from the Lannisters."

Sandor ignored him, glaring in silence until the mockingbird tired of waiting and walked off with a halfhearted chuckle. He tried to return to his food, but his appetite had disappeared.

Why should _he_ care if the little bird and her idiot brother trusted the biggest liar in the Seven Kingdoms? Sandor could not explain it even to himself. And yet...he doubted they knew how depraved Littlefinger truly was. Would Sansa Stark truly have made Littlefinger part of the council if she'd known that he'd forced her best friend into a life of whoring?

Sandor had to warn her. If Jon Snow was like their father in more than looks, Littlefinger would have a knife to _his_ throat before long, and Sansa Stark would be left alone again. That he could not allow, and he had to act fast. Littlefinger might poison all the chickens in Winterfell to kill Sandor, and the Hound could not bear such a tragic waste of his favorite food.

Finding the little bird in her own home was much more difficult than it had been in the Red Keep. Without the cloak of the Kingsguard, or the protection of the Lannisters, he lacked the freedom to move about the castle as he liked, and Sansa was safely ensconced in the family wing. While the rest of the Brotherhood rested or explored the castle grounds, the Hound looked for red hair.

Finally, when it was nearly suppertime, he saw her leaving the kitchens, dressed in a simple green gown made beautiful by her embroidery.

"Little bird," he said quickly, catching her attention. It pleased Sandor that she no longer flinched at the sight of him, though he wondered why. "What are you doing with _Petyr Baelish_?"

She sighed. "I don't trust him, but we would have lost the battle without him and the Knights of the Vale. I can't leave him out of the council now, no matter how much I might wish to. And in case you hadn't noticed, I've been careful to avoid him when we're not in meetings."

"Lady Stark, do you have any idea what that man _did_?"

The Princess in the North scowled. He'd never seen such anger on her face before, not even when Joffrey had made her look at her father's head on a spike.

"He sold me to Ramsay Bolton, a man who tortured women for sport," she said, venom oozing from her voice. "The man who knows everything claimed he didn't _know_ Ramsay was a monster before he sent me to the family that murdered mine."

Sandor looked her over, and realized that his moniker no longer fit. She was no more a bird than he was a dragon. Eddard Stark's oldest daughter had finally found the wolf in her blood.

"He's done worse than that, Princess. Do you remember the little girl that was with you in the Tower of the Hand, when the Lannisters killed all of the Stark men?"

Sansa frowned a bit, then remembered. "Jeyne? Jeyne Poole, the steward's daughter? What happened to her?"

"Cersei Lannister said that she'd been _upsetting_ you and must be removed from your presence. So she gave the girl to Littlefinger, and Littlefinger carried the girl away to one of his brothels, kicking and screaming. I heard tell he had her beaten black and blue, until she stopped asking for her father or for any Stark. She's still in King's Landing, a plaything of men just like that Ramsay Bolton."

The Sansa Stark of old would have wept, or screamed, or called him a mean old liar, mayhaps. The new Sansa Stark, beaten and widowed and reborn as a Princess of Winter, only closed her eyes. When they opened once more, the blue orbs shone with fury.

"Anything else?" she asked quietly.

"Your father had discovered that Joffrey and his siblings were not the king's children," Sandor explained. "He asked Littlefinger to get the City Watch on his side, so he could arrest the Lannisters. Baelish promised him this, and betrayed him. I was in the throne room myself, when Littlefinger held a dagger to your father's throat. _I did warn you not to trust me_ ," he said.

Sansa was biting her lower lip. Angry tears threatened to fall from her eyes, but they did not.

"What else, ser?"

Sandor knew the last would be the most damning.

"Cersei Lannister and the rest of the small council meant for your father to take the black. It was _Littlefinger_ that convinced Joffrey your father had to die; he wanted your mother for himself, and Eddard Stark was in the way. I watched him poison the boy king against your father, and smile when Ilyn Payne took his head."

A tear fell from her left eye. Sansa seemed too angry to speak. Her face, now stripped of the artifice of King's Landing, spoke loudly enough in any case. Before Sandor could do or say anything, a massive white beast appeared at the girl's side, barreling past the man to lick at the princess' delicate hand.

"Ghost," she murmured, patting the gigantic wolf's head. "I'm well, thank you."

"I'd forgotten your family had those wolves," Sandor said, watching the direwolf carefully. "This one is your brother's, then?"

"Yes, this is Jon's wolf," she replied. "He's been guarding us both since we took back our home."

Ghost inspected Sandor then, sniffing at him and studying him with red eyes that were far too intelligent for a wolf.

"I bet he's torn out a throat or two," Sandor offered, staying very still. "You ought to feed Littlefinger to him."

"I'd never feed Ghost something so horrible," she replied. "But Petyr Baelish _will_ die. Will you help me, Sandor Clegane?"

Seven hells. This girl had always been his weak spot. He had no idea what she would ask of him, but he nodded almost at once.

"Excellent. Ghost," she ordered the wolf, "bring Jon to his solar. We have work to do."


	2. A Rose and A Mockingbird, Sansa I

I don't usually update so quickly, but for now I'm catching up to everything I've posted on Ao3. I'd say to enjoy the frequent updates while they last! Thanks for reading, and please drop a line if you enjoyed it! I've struck up many interesting conversations with people who review on the Archive, and it's a big help when I'm working out what characters should be doing and saying in the future chapters, to be honest! That, and it's been fun to grouch and speculate and compare notes.

* * *

 **AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 1 - A Rose and A Mockingbird**

 **Sansa I**

Jon had been quite surprised by the summons, but had listened to Sansa's and the Hound's tale. In addition to the former sworn sword's accusations, Sansa had added the slow poisoning of her cousin, the death of her very own Florian, the lies to the Lords Declarant of the Vale, a singer named Marillion, and an unexpected flight through the Moon Door. By the end of their conversation, Sandor Clegane had taken hold of her brother's shoulders, keeping him forcibly in his seat as Jon's wolf blood overwhelmed his reason.

Sansa had then proposed a plan, concocted by herself with input from the Hound. She would let Littlefinger believe he was back in her good graces after winning the battle, and suggest—delicately, of course—that she would make an excellent Queen in the North. She would plot with him, meet with him in places where loyal people might overhear. Once she had enough evidence, she would accuse him in front of Jon's council and the Knights of the Vale, and Baelish would die.

The King in the North had looked at her with aghast gray eyes that reminded her painfully of Father's. Sansa had known he wouldn't like her plan; he was so much like Father that he had died the same way: betrayed by those he'd trusted. Thanks to the Red Witch and her magic she had Jon back, and she would _not_ allow Littlefinger to kill him again. She would make use of the Hound while he was here, and rid the North of a pest too dangerous to live.

"No," he declared finally. "Sansa, we can't do it that way."

"You can't just cut off his head, boy," the Hound said shortly, still keeping the younger man in his chair. "This is a different sort of battle."

"I know that," Jon protested, "I'm not as stupid as you think I am. But this would destroy you, Sansa. I don't mean your innocence," he added quickly, seeing she was about to protest. "I mean your reputation as a Stark. I've had Davos keeping an ear to the ground, and some of our men mistrust you already."

"Why?" cried Sansa, stung. "Because I was married to a Bolton and a Lannister?"

Jon shook his head. "It's not that, at least, not entirely. They don't like that you kept the Vale army secret from us. See, to the men that fought for us from the beginning, it looked like you used them—and me—as bait for the Boltons, and once we were dying by the hundreds, your shining knights rode in to save the day. They think you don't care at all about me or Rickon; you just wanted your castle back at all costs."

Sansa sank into her chair, fighting back sudden tears. "Jon, you know that's not what I—"

" _I_ know you wouldn't do that to me," he soothed her. "But _they_ don't. If any of them hear you plotting with Petyr Baelish, they'll call for your head. You'll be branded a turncloak and a kinslayer, Sansa. Trust me on this; I know what happens when you ignore the rumors and forge ahead anyway," he said painfully, tracing one of his stab wounds over his clothes.

She looked to the Hound, who was watching her with a puzzled sort of intensity. "What in the seven hells were you thinking, girl? If your brother is commanding your army, he should know about forces kept in reserve."

"I know," Sansa cried, "but it was Littlefinger at the helm! I had no way to know if he would come or not, and I didn't want to give anyone false hope!"

"What if you admitted to your council that you knew of the plan?" the Hound offered, finally releasing Jon's shoulders. "It didn't work very well for your father, but it might for you; you're not in King's Landing."

"What do you mean?" Jon asked.

Sandor Clegane sighed. "When Catelyn Stark kidnapped the Imp and took him to the Vale, Eddard Stark tried to pretend he'd ordered her to do it, when it was _painfully_ obvious that he had not. Can you lie better than your sire, your grace?"

"If they all think as badly of me as Ser Davos says, it won't matter," Sansa said gloomily.

"I wish we _could_ just drag him to the heart tree and kill him outright, before he can bribe or trick anyone," Jon groaned, running a hand through his dark hair in frustration.

"We can't do that without breaking guest right and losing the Knights of the Vale," Sansa reminded him unnecessarily.

"And forget about meeting him alone, to plot or even to talk about the weather," Jon ordered suddenly. "It's too dangerous; he could try to kidnap you again, and drag you back to the Vale for a third forced wedding."

Sansa had to admit the scenario was not entirely impossible, and shivered.

"We have to do this the Northern way," Jon said, steepling his hands under his pointed chin. His scarred hand stood out sharply against his dark beard and his pale left hand. After a long silence, he got up and began to pace, back and forth, from window to door.

Then he stopped, and Sansa caught a rare sparkle of optimism in her brother's gray eyes. "Sansa, do you remember what Father used to say about heart trees?"

Sansa shook her head. To her shame, she'd ignored Old Nan's and Father's tales of the old gods in favor of the Seven, with their pretty septs and grand ceremonies. Lady Catelyn had not cared for the old gods, and Sansa had followed in her footsteps, believing she would marry and grow old in the south. Out of Father's six children, only Jon had kept strictly to the old gods. The sept had been very much Mother's domain, and Jon had known all too well that he was not welcome there.

"Father said that no one could lie in front of a heart tree," Jon explained. "Lord Mormont told me his father said the same to him as a boy. What if it were true? What if we took Littlefinger to the one place in Winterfell where he could not lie, and had him confess _there_?"

The Hound snorted.

"That would be very useful," Sansa said practically, ignoring the knight, "and it would explain why Father always talked to us there after we'd done something naughty. But we can't count on it until we try. Shall we go to the godswood now and practice lying to each other?"

Her brother smiled. It was an unusual sight, especially now that he was grown and so very solemn. "We may not need it. What if we revise your plan a little, Sansa? You don't need to pretend you trust Littlefinger, or plot my murder with him for weeks on end. In fact, you can do the opposite."

"How?" Sandor Clegane asked, frowning at the king.

"If he's watching closely, he must know that you two talked," Jon went on, "so lure him to the godswood with a message. Tell him that you _want_ to trust him again, but you can't until he clears up some accusations that the Hound made against him."

Sansa grinned. Littlefinger thought all Northmen were stupid fools he could manipulate at will, savages who wore their honor like pretty, but useless, armor. He had only ever respected Roose Bolton, for obvious and despicable reasons. Jon would prove him wrong.

"If Ser Sandor is willing, he and the Brotherhood can guard the gate as soon as Littlefinger enters; I'll ask Tormund to do the same with the smaller gates. Davos can whisper to the right witnesses that there's treason afoot, and we'll hide them around the heart tree. When Littlefinger is there, you can make him confess, in the hopes of earning back your trust. We may not even need the old gods."

The Hound was watching Jon with an expression that looked almost impressed.

"And best of all," Jon finished, "you'll be surrounded by our men at all times. If Littlefinger tries anything, we'll kill him outright."

"He won't hurt me, Jon," Sansa assured him. "He'll give me some compliments, and try to shake my trust in you, but he's never done worse than kiss me."

The King in the North and the Hound both looked thunderous.

"A kiss is only harmless if you _want_ one," Jon said with audible fury. "He'll never do it again, mark my words."

Sansa thought it best to change the subject quickly. Jon was usually cool and collected, like Father had been, but there were a few things that sent him into a towering rage. She'd learned that his sisters coming to harm was one of them.

"Make sure you place some Vale lords around the heart tree, and I'll bring up Aunt Lysa if I can. They may not care so much about his betrayal of our father, or poor Jeyne, but knowing that he pushed their liege lady out the Moon Door—and that he encouraged her to poison their liege lord—should be enough for several death sentences."

"It will be my pleasure to take his head," Jon said, scowling so fiercely that Sansa was almost frightened. Then she remembered it was _Jon_ , the one person left in the world that would never hurt her. "Unless you'd like to do it. Longclaw is Valyrian steel, and quite a bit thinner and shorter than Ice; even _you_ should be able to lift it, Sansa."

His offer was earnest. The old Sansa would have protested, and quite loudly, that she could not kill a man. But the old, starry-eyed Sansa had not fed her husband to his dogs. The new Sansa appreciated Jon's thoughtfulness.

"That would be a sight," said the Hound, grinning. "Have you grown fierce enough to execute a man, little wolf?"

He was looking at her rather strangely, like he expected her to accept Jon's offer. She wondered if that was a compliment.

"Thank you, but no," Sansa replied, smiling at her brother. "I'll leave the beheadings to you, if you don't mind. This is the sharpest weapon I will carry," she finished, holding out the embroidery needle she kept in her apron pocket.

"Alright, then," Jon answered. "Ser Clegane, I thank you for everything you've done, and will do here."

He offered his hand to the Hound, who shook it. To Sansa's surprise, the knight bowed to Jon and to herself, then left the room, leaving the siblings alone in the solar. Jon immediately dragged two chairs closer to the fire, and led Sansa to the most comfortable one. She took the offered seat, and looked at her brother curiously.

"What are we doing, Jon?" she asked him.

Jon's lips twitched. "You are a Princess in the North now, Sansa. You need to relearn the stories and songs of your people."

In his unscarred hand he held an old book named _Weirwoods and White Walkers: Tales of the North_.

"Where did you find that?" Sansa asked, touching the cover almost reverently. "The library tower burned down ages ago!"

"I found it in the ruins of Maester Luwin's turret," he replied, sitting on the other chair. "Since we've a free evening for once, I thought we could read a bit."

Sansa's throat suddenly felt too thick to talk; her eyes watered, and _not_ because of the dusty book. His intentions were clear to her; they had skirted around their home and each other for three moons, unsure of how to act, too hurt to just fall back into old patterns. This was Jon offering to return to the Winterfell of their youth, if only for a little while.

"You used to read to Arya," she said softly.

"I used to read to both of you," he answered mildly. "When Robb ran off with Theon and I didn't want to go along, I'd sneak into the nursery and read to _both_ of my sisters."

There was no reproach in his tone, but Sansa felt it all the same. Out of her two elder brothers, Jon had always been the most patient with the younger children, herself included. Until she had decided bastards were not worth her time—with Mother and Septa Mordane helping her reach that decision, naturally—she had spent quite a bit of time in Jon's care, especially when Mother had been carrying Arya, and then Bran.

"You sang, too," Sansa remembered suddenly. "When Arya was ill with the blue pox, I remember you came into the room. I was pretending to sleep, but I heard you singing to her."

"Aye," he said fondly. "It was one of the few things that could calm her as a babe, when she worked up one of her tantrums."

Sansa reached for his hand and squeezed it gently. "Go on then, Jon. Read us a proper northern tale."

He read. Robb might have chosen a comedy to cheer them up, but Jon had not. The tale he'd picked was of the Last Hero of the First Men, the one who had sought the aid of the Children of the Forest to survive the Long Night. It was a sad tale, full of loss. Silent tears trickled down Sansa's cheeks as the Last Hero buried his friends, one by one, and finally, his last companion—his faithful dog—and went on, utterly alone. What had been just a sad tale for children was all too real for the surviving Starks.

"Sansa? Are you well?"

"Fine," she replied, snapping out of her half-doze. "I'm well, Jon, it's just a sad tale."

"I should have chosen something else," Jon said regretfully. "But this one was on my mind; Sam told me once that he found a version in which the Last Hero killed Others with a dragonsteel blade. I hoped we might have it in Winterfell, but this isn't it."

"It's alright," Sansa assured him. "Compared to my usual nightmares, the Last Hero's adventures are quite cheerful, you know."

Jon could not hide a grimace. "We should get some sleep," he said at last. "You have your own monster to fight tomorrow."

He marked the page with an embroidered bookmark that Grandmother Lyarra had made, and closed the old book carefully. He then offered his left hand to Sansa, and gently pulled her to her feet.

"Sleep well," he offered, kissing her forehead. Sansa stayed in his arms, breathing in the scents of leather, smoke, and old parchment. She had never embraced Jon much as a child; as an adult, she could not get enough of that simple comfort.

"I never do," Sansa admitted. "But I am a Stark; I am not afraid of a few nightmares."

Jon chuckled dryly. "I wish I had your courage; most nights I wake up screaming and wander about the castle until the sun rises."

"Well, the next time it happens, come to me. I will be tossing and turning too, and my bed is bigger and more comfortable than yours."

"Sansa, that's not—it's improper for a bast—" the King in the North stammered.

"I don't care," she murmured into his shoulder. "We need to sleep. Mayhaps we can chase away each other's bad dreams for a change. Now, promise me."

Jon stared at her, gray eyes wide. She was sure he would never have expected such an offer from the proper, southron Sansa of old. Septa Mordane and Mother would have fainted. But Sansa saw the deep shadows under her brother's eyes, and knew she must help him any way she could. And if helping him helped her, so much the better.

"Promise me you will wake me up instead of wandering the corridors alone. Do it, Jon."

He sighed in defeat. "I promise, Sansa."

Sansa beamed at him. "Good. Good night, your grace," she said, grinning when he made a face at the title. Before he could protest any further, she left him for the comfort of her bedchamber. Tomorrow would be a busy day.


	3. A Rose and A Mockingbird, Jon I

**AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 1 - A Rose and A Mockingbird**

 **Jon I**

The next morning, the King in the North woke to see a light snowfall outside his window. Jon had slept well enough to not need Sansa's offer, meaning he had slept half the night instead of none of it. He dressed in his warmest clothes, and of course, the Stark cloak Sansa had made for him. She met him in outside her bedchamber, the one he'd insisted she take, wearing a lovely dress and cloak of Tully blue wool and white fur. Her hair was styled in a way Lady Catelyn had favored in her youth. Jon knew it was a deliberate effort, so Littlefinger would see Catelyn Tully and not her daughter. Even _he_ saw Catelyn Stark, and it made him more uncomfortable than he cared to admit.

Breakfast was quiet at the high table. Ser Davos, usually cheerful, had received a letter from his wife via White Harbor, and was brooding more than usual. Even the boisterous Tormund was silent, though that was not so rare in the mornings.

When Jon had eaten as much as he wished, he left the high table and took Davos with him. Petyr Baelish sat at the same table, and his shrewd eyes were always watching Jon with an expression he couldn't read. This was not the place to speak to the former smuggler, who had been serving as Jon's unofficial Hand since the Northmen had made him king. Sansa had urged him to make the appointment official for a month, and that would serve well enough as a pretext for speaking privately.

"Ser Davos," said Jon once they'd reached his solar. "You've been a faithful counselor to us, and I would see you rewarded, though I understand if you would rather return home. If you're willing to stay, however, I would name you Hand of the King."

"I'm just an old smuggler, King Jon," Davos protested halfheartedly.

"And I'm just a bastard crow returned from the dead," Jon replied in the same tone. "Even Stannis Baratheon saw your worth and made you his Hand; did you think I wouldn't? I spent the past few years in the Watch, with thieves, smugglers, whores, and disgraced lords for brothers, Ser Davos."

The Onion Knight sighed. "I _do_ wish to return home, your grace," he admitted, "but I know how important the battle in the North will be to the whole kingdom. I'll not abandon you now, and Marya and my youngest sons have made their peace with that."

Jon clapped the older man's shoulder in gratitude. "I can offer you lands and a title here in the North, though with the Long Night coming, you may wish to keep your family as far to the south as you can. Whatever is in my power to do for them, just name it, and it will be done, ser."

The former smuggler's brown eyes met his own, and finally, Davos Seaworth smiled. "I would be honored to serve as Hand, your grace."

"Good," Jon sighed in relief. "Then I must tell you, Ser Davos, that there is a threat to our kingdom living in this castle, and Sansa and I mean to get rid of him. We will need your help."

Davos Seaworth looked at Jon in alarm. "What sort of threat, your grace?"

Jon told Davos what the Hound and Sansa had shared with him about Petyr Baelish. He barely noticed how he was squeezing his hands into fists until his scarred hand twinged in pain. Forcing himself to breathe and relax his tight muscles, he told his new Lord Hand what the three of them had planned.

"The man Clegane is not known for his honor," Ser Davos said at last, "but neither is Baelish. I don't doubt Lady Sansa's story, however. That man seems just the type to use poison and trickery. And I'm glad you talked her out of her original plan; Lord Glover might have called for her head if he'd caught a whiff of treachery from her."

He straightened. "I'll round up the lords we need, your grace. They'll be armed, and in position in the godswood."

"Thank you," Jon answered. "Let's get to it."

An hour later, Sansa and Ghost stood by the black pool beneath the heart tree, apparently alone. The icy wind plucked at her blue dress and auburn hair, and ruffled Ghost's fur. The woman and the wolf made a lovely picture of winter beauty in the North.

Jon kept an eye on her from behind an enormous ironwood. Lord Royce, Lord Glover, Lady Mormont, and a few others of his council were scattered around the small clearing, each covered with a hunter's snow-white hooded cloak, and hidden behind a tree. From his post behind the nearest sentinel, Ser Davos nodded to Jon, informing him silently that all of their men were in place. The Brotherhood and the Free Folk, under Tormund's command, would seal off all of the entrances once Baelish had entered, blocking his escape.

Petyr Baelish entered the godswood at last, whistling carelessly. He smiled at the sight of Sansa, dressed in her mother's colors and her mother's hairstyle. The enormous wolf made him pause, but he summoned his courage and pressed on, reaching the pool in no time at all.

"Dearest Sansa," he murmured, and Jon scowled at his tone. "After our last conversation here, I did not think you would send for me. Yet here you are, a vision of loveliness; and I am your humble servant," he said with a bow and flourish.

"I was angry," Sansa replied. "You played a dangerous game with my life, Petyr, and it almost cost me _everything_. I may have been too hasty, especially considering your help with the battle, but I am still suffering the effects of my second marriage." She shuddered dramatically, and Ghost nuzzled into her dress. "I can't even sleep at night, did you know that?"

"I am so, very truly sorry," the weasel replied, stepping closer to Jon's sister. "What shall I do to prove my regret, my love? Name it, and I will fulfill your wish or die in the attempt."

That was the opening Sansa had been hoping for.

"Sandor Clegane spoke to me earlier," she replied, lowering her gaze to his. "He insisted I ought not to trust you, and he had a few tales to tell that explained why. Would you set my mind at ease, my lord? I don't trust easily these days, but after all we've been through together, I thought you deserved a chance to explain."

The Lord Protector of the Vale snorted. "The Hound!" he said derisively. "What does Sandor Clegane know of anything beyond killing and eating and fucking? What does he know of the game of thrones, and what it takes to play it? But I meant what I said," he added hastily, catching himself. "And I will be happy to set your mind at ease. What has the dog said to make you uneasy, sweetling? I am sure it is just a simple misunderstanding, or a truth twisted into falsehood by a coward and a traitor."

"He said Cersei gave you my friend, Jeyne Poole, to do with as you wished."

Baelish, clever as he was, had not been expecting that. His confident smile froze in place.

"He said you took her to one of your brothels, and beat her until she did what you asked of her, no matter how degrading. He said she's there still, a broken shell of a girl who lives to be the sport of men like my _dearly_ _departed_ second husband."

"He lies," the man replied swiftly, though Jon heard an uncertain tone he'd never heard in that man's voice before. "Queen Cersei _did_ ask it of me, but I could never be so cruel to an innocent girl! She came home to Winterfell on the ship meant for _you_ ; whatever became of her afterward, you may blame on the Ironborn and the Boltons."

 _Jeyne Poole, a clueless little girl, crossed Westeros and returned home_ alone _? He can't even come up with a decent story,_ Jon thought, incensed.

He was not surprised, but mildly disappointed. After the Red God had shown his powers by returning Jon to the living, he'd wondered if the old gods of his father might have tricks of their own; perhaps a bolt of lightning to strike the man dead? As far as he could tell, the weirwood had not prevented Baelish from lying as usual.

Then a whispering voice emerged from the heart tree.

 _Liar!_ the wind breathed, and its boyish voice was oddly familiar. _Liar, liar, liar!_

One of the hidden Northmen—probably Lord Cerwyn, judging by the distance—cursed in surprise, too quietly for Littlefinger to hear. Jon was closer, however, and fought back a smile. He hadn't been king for long, but he knew a sign of divine favor could be just the thing they needed right now.

"What was that?" Littlefinger said sharply, looking around the clearing in alarm.

Sansa gave him her politest look of mild concern. "It's just the wind, my lord. Northmen say that's how the old gods speak. The Hound had another accusation, if you would be so kind."

Rattled, the Vale lord made a visible effort to calm himself, and faced Sansa again.

"Let's hear it, sweetling," he said at last. "What else does the Hound say to accuse me?"

"He said that you knew Cersei's children were bastards from the beginning," Sansa began.

"Of course I knew! _Everyone_ knew in the end," Baelish said immediately. "Stannis and Renly knew, Jon Arryn knew, the old fool Pycelle certainly knew. Everyone but Robert, and Ser Barristan, I suppose. Your father took his time figuring it out, but even Ned Stark got there eventually, with my help."

"He said that my father asked you to secure the City Watch," Jon's sister went on, watching the man's face carefully. "He said you promised to bring the Watch to his side, but that in the throne room, you and the Watch betrayed him. You held a dagger to his throat and told my father he shouldn't have trusted you."

The former Master of Coin scoffed. "And you believed this?"

"I've known you both for some time now, Lord Baelish. Sandor Clegane has told me many things I didn't wish to hear, but he does not lie. Did you betray my father or not?"

"Do you truly believe I would do such a thing?" he replied, giving her a small, disbelieving smile. Jon wasn't sure what he'd done to join with Ghost, but he could smell the man's fear through the direwolf's nose suddenly. He didn't usually warg while awake! It was very distracting; Ghost's instincts were _screaming_ to bite, to kill this intruder who threatened their den.

"You forget, Petyr, that I saw you push Aunt Lysa out of the Moon Door. I _know_ you're capable of things honorable men wouldn't do, and I heard her admit she poisoned Jon Arryn for _you_. If there is the slightest chance I will forgive you for what you did to me, I will have the truth, _now_."

"Very well," he said, no longer smiling. "I _did_ turn the Watch against your father's men. I knew if we did things his way, it would be a disaster, and I acted quickly to safeguard the kingdom."

 _Liar, liar, LIAR!_ whispered the old gods. Littlefinger was definitely rattled now. His eyes darted frantically around the godswood.

"My father's way would have made Stannis Baratheon king," Sansa argued, pretending she'd heard nothing. "How was that bad for the kingdom?"

"Your _idiot_ father warned Cersei that he knew about her treason," Petyr Baelish said angrily, losing his patience. "I _told_ him he could have kept quiet, stayed as Joffrey's Hand, and kept the peace in the kingdom for a few years longer. But he told Cersei Lannister to flee, because he would inform Robert of what she had done as soon as he returned from his hunt, and he didn't want the deaths of her bastards on his precious, honorable conscience! You may thank your imbecilic father for King Robert's untimely death; because he warned the queen, she had Robert poisoned, and Lannister men slaughtered every Stark man in King's Landing."

Sansa stepped back. Her mouth had fallen open in shock, and her blue eyes glimmered with unshed tears. Beside her, Ghost bared his teeth menacingly at Littlefinger, though the direwolf made no sound. The Hound had warned them that Baelish had done what he'd done to make Catelyn Stark a widow, but even Jon was surprised at the depths of Littlefinger's vitriol for Ned Stark.

The old gods were silent. Either they too, were shocked, or Petyr Baelish had told the truth for once.

"It was necessary, Sansa," he said, quieter now. He made to reach for her, but Ghost got in the way, blocking his path. Baelish didn't dare step closer to the direwolf.

"It made my mother a widow, you mean" she accused, staring at Littlefinger accusingly. "I heard what you said to Aunt Lysa. Will you kill _me_ , when you remember that I am Sansa, and not Catelyn?"

"No, never!" Baelish cried. He had never sounded so sincere to Jon's ears. "I did love Catelyn once, but it was a foolish, boyish fancy. It is _you_ I love, Sansa; that is why I took you from King's Landing, and why I pushed Lysa—to _save_ you from her madness! She would have killed you, remember?"

Sansa looked deep in thought. "Sandor Clegane was not in King's Landing for this, but tell me true, Petyr; when I foolishly told Dontos Hollard that the Tyrells planned to spirit me away to Highgarden, I'm sure he ran and told you. What did you do?"

"I told the Lannisters," he replied, hesitating. "I wished to marry you myself, and they knew it; but Tywin and Cersei would not allow a minor lord from the Fingers to marry the Key to the North. That is how your marriage to the Imp came about."

Sansa closed her eyes. She had confessed to Jon, in one of those rare moments when she spoke of King's Landing, that the silly girl-child she'd been had finally died on her first wedding day.

"I am sorry!" Baelish pleaded. "I never thought they'd sink so low as to marry you to _Tyrion_ , or that they'd do it so quickly! I thought Lancel, or Martyn, perhaps—"

"Then you really are a fool. Tyrion treated me miles better than Ramsay," Sansa said coldly. "And if you loved me so much, why did you marry me to yet _another_ man, when I was finally free of Tyrion Lannister?"

"If you were in the North," Baelish explained, "I would have the crown's blessing to ride here with the Knights of the Vale, and take Winterfell from the Boltons for rebelling against King Tommen. You would have vengeance on the family that slaughtered yours, you would have your home, and you'd be a widow once more, free to marry your rescuer."

Once again, no sound came from the weirwood.

"Am I forgiven, dearest?" Littlefinger asked, finally able to walk to Sansa's side now that Ghost had moved. "I did what I did to make you my queen; I thought you knew that. If you wish it, I will make you queen yet. Winterfell, the Iron Throne—they could all be yours and mine."

"How?" asked Jon's sister.

"Come, Sansa," Littlefinger said gently. "I can't tell you all of my plans. Even the trees have ears."

Sansa's face turned ice-cold. Jon remembered seeing the same expression on Catelyn Stark's face, and shivered.

"I am _through_ being anyone's pawn," Sansa said fiercely. "If you mean to use me in your plans, I will know of them first, _my lord_."

Petyr Baelish looked taken aback, but then he smiled, as though Sansa's show of backbone were his doing. "Very well, my love. I mean to make you queen here in the North, while I conquer the South. Every major house owes me greatly, except for the Lannisters, and I mean to collect. And a few well-placed secrets here and there will send the Lannister dynasty crashing down, leaving the Iron Throne free for the taking."

"And what of Jon?" Sansa asked, betraying nothing.

Petyr Baelish shrugged. "A bastard will never command as much respect as a trueborn, even if he is Ned Stark's. A well-timed political blunder will have the Northmen clamoring for a _true_ Stark, one that doesn't blather on about wildling children's tales. And if your brother proves wiser than his sire or his predecessor, a bit of sweetsleep in his cup will send him back to his nameless mother. He'll feel no pain, and you will be Queen in the North, as you should have been from the start."

From behind Jon, he heard a small gasp. He hoped the rest of his council would remain quiet a moment longer.

"You would kill the only brother I have left?" Sansa cried.

"If you truly wish to spare him, he could take the black again, I suppose," Littlefinger said dubiously, "but what king would willingly step down in favor of his sister? And considering his history with the Watch, he'll not return in a hurry. It's best for us all if he dies in his sleep one night. Really, Sansa; after all the grief that boy caused your mother, I'm surprised you care so much for him."

"Would it not cause suspicion, to use the same poison on Jon that you're using on Sweetrobin?"

"Not at all," replied Baelish, frowning. "You know Robert has always been sickly, and no one suspects a thing. There would be different maesters tending to each patient. And your brother supposedly returned from the dead; would it be so strange if he went back to that state one night, now that Stannis' Red Witch is not here to work her sorcery?"

Jon watched his sister shiver. He wasn't sure if it was disgust at the man's callousness, or excellent acting. Then she reached behind her head, and pulled up her fur-lined hood. It was the signal.

"Cold, my dear?" Baelish asked.

"I am a Princess in the North," Sansa replied coolly. "Cold is in my blood, Petyr. _Seize him!_ "

Immediately, Jon's men stepped into view, surrounding Sansa, Littlefinger, and Ghost. Even the tiny Lady Mormont stepped forward, dagger in hand, and glaring at Littlefinger with pure disgust. Lord Royce looked sick, but the sword he pointed at Petyr Baelish was steady. Next to him stood Lord Glover and Ser Davos, also pointing their steel at the man's chest and groin. Lord Cerwyn's and Lord Norrey's swords were inches from Littlefinger's back, surrounding him with steel.

Jon joined them. He knew from prior experience that his face was as cold as his father's when he'd executed criminals. Perhaps criminals deserved some compassion, but Jon could not muster any for _this_ weasel of a man. The sooner his ashes were swept out of Winterfell, the better.

"We heard your confession, Petyr Baelish, and so have the old gods of the North," Jon said gravely. "You conspired to murder Lord Jon Arryn. You killed Lady Lysa Arryn, and Dontos Hollard. You are poisoning the current Lord of the Vale, Robert Arryn. You lied to the Lords Declarant of the Vale. You betrayed my father, and abetted the treason of Cersei and Jaime Lannister. You took an innocent girl of Winterfell and sold her into slavery at one of your brothels. You kidnapped Princess Sansa Stark. You pledge your men to our cause, and plot to murder me in the same breath."

"Your crimes are so numerous that I could never list them all, and you befoul our godswood by your very presence. Is there anyone who will speak for you, or should I take your head now?" Jon finished, slowly removing Longclaw from its scabbard. The godswood was utterly silent but for the ringing of Valyrian steel.

Petyr Baelish had grown paler with every sentence. He looked ready to faint, and Jon caught the sharp scent of urine as Littlefinger pissed himself. The condemned man turned to Sansa, but he found no mercy in her face.

"Please, your grace," Lord Royce spoke up. "I am as appalled as you. This man's crimes against House Stark, House Arryn, and the kingdom at large are beyond count. Even the gods broke their silence to condemn him," he added, shooting a wary glance at the heart tree. "It is your right to take his head, but let the Knights of the Vale hear his crimes first, especially his poisoning of our liege lord. Most of the men have no idea how depraved this man truly is, and I would avoid strife between your men and ours if I can."

"Very well," Jon agreed, sheathing Longclaw. The last thing he wanted was for the Vale men to accuse him of murder, and slaughter the Northmen and Free Folk in Winterfell in revenge. Above all else, he had to protect Sansa. "We will lock him up for now, and Lord Royce will assemble his men. Once everyone understands what has happened, Baelish dies."

He offered Sansa his arm, and squeezed hers lightly when she took it. Behind them, Lords Royce and Glover had taken Littlefinger, who had not said a word, and marched him unceremoniously towards the dungeons. Lady Mormont and Ser Davos followed, still holding their weapons within easy reach. Ghost walked behind them, his red eyes fixed on Littlefinger.

When they exited the godswood, Sandor Clegane roared with laughter at the sight of Petyr Baelish, pale and surrounded by the steel of enemies that wished him dead.

"About time someone caught this snake and cut off its head," he said with relish. "When's the hanging?"

"Hanging?" Harwin cried. "No, Clegane, we Northmen dispense justice with a _sword_."


	4. A Rose and A Mockingbird, Sansa II

**AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 1 - A Rose and A Mockingbird**

 **Sansa II**

Sansa had never gone near the castle forge in her childhood. She knew Arya had done, and her three eldest brothers, but this was one corner of Winterfell with which she was not familiar. She was lucky to have Jon with her, though it spoiled the surprise a bit.

"Come, Sansa, tell me what you've done," the King in the North asked her curiously. "I have a sword, my ringmail is in good condition, and I don't usually carry a shield."

Sansa huffed. "Really, Jon, what do I know of armor? I didn't commission a full set of plate, if that's what you feared."

"Well, what is it, then? I doubt it's a new set of silver spoons."

"Patience, your grace," she told him, grinning when he flinched. She wondered how long it would take him to accept his new title.

"Ah, Princess Sansa!" greeted Mikkar, the smith. He'd been recently married when Jon and Sansa had left Winterfell, and an apprentice to his father, Mikken. Sansa had met him in the Great Hall, and heard much about his family and the murderous Ironborn, as well as his hatred of Theon and the Boltons, when conspiring with the smith to make Jon's surprise.

"Jo—your grace," Mikkar added, bowing respectfully when he saw Jon.

"Good morning, Mik. Do you know why I'm here? Because I don't," the King in the North told the smith.

"Of course I know, your grace," he replied cheerfully. "By the old gods, it's strange calling you that, King Jon! It's in here."

He reached under his worktable and found a metal box, square and no more than six inches tall. A running direwolf adorned the lid. Mikkar offered it to Jon with a flourish. Puzzled, Jon turned to Sansa.

"Open it," she commanded, smiling.

Jon did so, and his breath caught. Inside the padded box was a circlet of hammered bronze, adorned with nine iron spikes shaped like swords. Every Stark king in the crypts until King Torrhen had worn a similar crown, and Riverrun's smiths had made an identical one for Robb. Instead of the First Men's runes of the first and second crowns, Mikkar had embossed the words _Winter is Coming_ onto the bronze band.

"We don't know where Robb's crown is," Sansa admitted. "The Freys must have kept it. But you need a symbol of your new title, too. I hope you'll wear it, at least for important occasions when you need to be kingly, like Littlefinger's execution."

Jon reached for the crown with careful fingers. Sansa knew he was not the type to flaunt his position, but the lords and smallfolk of the North needed to see their new king as he was now, and not as the bastard boy he'd been.

Sansa and Mikkar watched as Jon placed the crown on his head, and adjusted it to his liking.

"Do I look like a king yet?" he asked dubiously.

"Not just a king. You look like a _Stark_ ," replied Mikkar, grinning, giving Jon a small bow. "Your grace."

"What about you, Sansa?" Jon said suddenly. "If I have to wear a crown, you should, too. You _are_ a Princess in the North, and I have no children; that makes you Crown Princess."

Sansa shook her head. It was so like Jon, and unlike anyone else, to name her his heir without an ounce of ceremony or hesitation! Foolish, too, since no Northman would follow an untrained woman into battle, but she loved Jon for it, all the same.

"I thought of that, your grace," the smith told him, now grinning wider. "I took the liberty of making this for the princess."

He produced another box, this one quite a bit shorter. After a nudge from Jon, Sansa opened the box and found a circlet of iron, slightly thinner than Jon's bronze one, and embossed with leaves. Instead of swords, this crown bore nine winter roses made of bronze.

"Good work, Mik, that's beautiful," said Jon, following the edge of a rose petal with his gloved finger.

"When m'lady Arya returns, I'll make her another," the smith offered. His simple faith that Arya lived and would come home warmed Sansa to her bones, especially after her conversation with Littlefinger.

"I can't see Arya wearing roses in her hair, even if they're made of metal," murmured Jon.

"Aye," agreed Mikkar, laughing. " _Her_ crown would have swords as well, or perhaps running horses."

Sansa had taken her new crown thoughtfully. Never in her life had she imagined such a thing; her childhood dreams had involved delicate circlets of silver and gold, studded with sparkling gems that caught the sunlight and matched her eyes and her gowns. But the winter rose crown was a beautiful reflection of herself. _She_ had been easily crushed by careless hands, but remained resilient and beautiful in the growing cold. She put it on and faced her brother.

"Lovely," he approved, tucking a strand of her auburn hair behind her ear, and straightening her crown. "Petyr Baelish will see the Winter Rose of the North before he dies, standing unbroken despite all he did to our family; let the sight haunt him forever in the seven hells of the southron gods."

"Is it my turn to have a nickname?" Sansa japed. "Robb was the Young Wolf, you're the White Wolf, and I'm to be the Winter Rose?"

"If you like," her brother said agreeably, taking the two boxes from Mikkar and offering her his other arm. She took it, and they bid the smith farewell, heading back to their own quarters. They met a few wildlings, who jeered and bowed in jest at the sight of their crowns. Sansa knew better than to take offense by now. "A rose has thorns, and you have your needles. I think Winter Rose suits you well, though Fiery She-Wolf would do for the Free Folk."

"Why?" Sansa asked, puzzled.

"The Free Folk say that hair like yours is kissed by fire, and lucky," Jon explained.

Sansa inspected a lock of hair with her free hand. "It hasn't brought me much luck."

She looked up at Jon's face, and was struck by the sadness there. "What is it, Jon?"

He sighed. "I never told you this," he said slowly, "but I broke my Night's Watch vows once. I was sent on a mission north of the Wall, and infiltrated Mance Rayder's camp. That is how I came to befriend people like Tormund. And I spared the life of a girl I found while scouting with the Halfhand, so she said I'd stolen her."

"Stolen her? You mean—"

"Aye, to _her_ it was like I'd married her," Jon said wryly, watching Sansa's face. She knew her surprise showed. "She was very...persistent. In the end, I did love her. We climbed the Wall together, and when she realized I hadn't truly deserted the Watch, she shot me. "

He looked down at his leg, lost in his memories.

"What was her name?" Sansa asked carefully.

"Ygritte," Jon said. "She was kissed by fire, too, but that didn't save her. She died when the Free Folk attacked Castle Black. They were desperate to come south of the Wall, you see," he explained.

"Poor Jon," Sansa murmured, meaning it. "I thought you, alone at the Wall, would be safe from the trials of love, and yet here you are. Bards will sing of Ygritte, who shot a king in the leg and wounded his heart. The maidens will flock to Winterfell, hoping to cheer up their king and take his mind off his lost love."

Her brother and king looked horrified at the very idea. There he stood, the image of a young Stark king of old, and Sansa could not stop the laugh that erupted from her belly.

"You needn't look so scared, Jon," she giggled. It had been _years_ since she had laughed so easily.

"I have a very deadly war to fight against the Others. The last thing I want is to have the ladies of the North chasing me around Winterfell, hoping I'll make them queens," Jon told her seriously, opening the door and holding it for her.

"You can't avoid it now, brother," Sansa said practically, turning to face him as she passed by. "You married off Alys too quickly; she would have been the perfect Queen of Winter. Now the chase will only stop when you choose another queen, and _then_ the others will fight to become your mistresses."

Her brother stiffened. "Well, anyone who thinks that can forget it right now. I have no plans to marry for the nonce, but if I did, I would not shame my wife."

Sansa smiled. Good men were rare in this world, but Jon was decidedly one of their number.

"I know you won't," she replied softly.

The King in the North gave Sansa the box for her crown, and retired to his solar. He usually attended to his correspondence at this hour, as well as the household and army accounts, knowing Sansa had no head for figures. That gave her enough time to sneak down to the kennels, where her new friends waited. For a moment, Sansa considered taking off her circlet and putting it away. Then she changed her mind; she was a Stark, a Princess of Winter, and she would make no apologies for it.

Inside the kennels, she was surprised to find the Hound, though really, she shouldn't have been. Why should a kennelmaster's grandson _not_ visit his fellow hounds? He turned, hearing her approach, and raised his undamaged eyebrow at the sight of her new crown.

"You're dressed far too pretty for a visit to the dogs, Princess," he said. "And shouldn't you be in the Hall, telling the useless Knights of the Vale why Littlefinger is about to die?"

"No, thank you," Sansa said serenely. "I've had as much of Petyr Baelish and his crimes as I can handle in a day. And I disagree, ser," she added, kneeling to greet the dogs through the bars. Sansa reached into the bag she'd taken from the kitchen, and pulled out a handful of sausages. The dogs' tails waved frantically as she handed out the treats. "The dogs are my friends, and they've done me a great service."

"Oh really?" Sandor Clegane asked curiously. "And I'm not a ser. Why do you insist on calling me that?"

Sansa met his eyes with her own. "We don't really have knights in the North, unless they squired for a southron or follow the Faith of the Seven. I call you ser because to me, you represent what a knight should be, rather than what they are. You are here to defend us from danger, are you not?"

He said nothing. "And these dogs ate my second husband for me," Sansa explained, running a hand through Kyra's fur.

The Hound's mouth fell open. "WHAT?"

"It's true, I swear it by the old gods and the new," Sansa assured him, noting his disbelief. "Ramsay was fond of hunting women instead of beasts; these dogs helped him. If the woman gave good sport, he would name one of the bitches after her. But before the battle he starved them for days, poor things, hoping they'd eat Jon for him. I locked Ramsay in there after we won, so the women he hunted and I had our revenge, and these beauties had a feast."

Sandor Clegane said nothing. He stared at her, wordless.

"I may have been a little bird when you first met me," Sansa said, "but I am a wolf now, ser."

"You're more like your sister than you thought," the Hound told her at last.

Sansa smiled bitterly at this. "Arya would have stabbed Ramsay to death on their wedding night," she said firmly. "She hated everything about King's Landing, and she knew from the start what Joffrey was. I wish Nymeria had _eaten_ him instead of given him a scratch." _Then Lady and Father might not have died for nothing_ , she thought sadly.

Her thighs burned from squatting by the dogs. She rose, using the kennel bars for support. On the other side, Red Jeyne, Sara, and Kyra whined piteously.

"Oh, hush," Sansa told them. "I'll come back tomorrow, you know I will."

"I did wonder why you were no longer afraid of me," Sandor Clegane said, quieter than he usually spoke. He stepped closer, but did not move to touch her. "I suppose you've seen real monsters now."

The princess blushed. "I have. Can you forgive me for the way I treated you?"

The Hound scoffed. "Forgive you? For being disgusted at the sight of me? I can't fault any woman for that, little wolf. _I'm_ disgusted at the sight of me."

"Well, it was still rude of me," Sansa insisted, falling back on politeness when sincerity was not enough. "And I will prepare something for you to take on your journey north. You once gave me your cloak when I needed it most," she said, fighting back a shudder at the memory of her beatings and humiliations in front of Joffrey's court. "Now I will give _you_ one."

The man blinked, like he could not remember when he'd given her a cloak. Then his eyes darkened. "You don't owe me anything for _that_."

"I do," she argued. "No one but you and Tyrion even spoke out when Joffrey had his Kingsguard beat me, and you're going to the Wall for all our sakes. The least I can do is make sure that you're warm enough. This won't do at all," Sansa decided, prodding at the Hound's scratchy woolen cloak.

Sandor Clegane looked at Sansa like he'd never seen anything like her. Then he gave her a small bow.

"Then I thank you, Princess," he said in his raspy voice.


	5. A Rose and A Mockingbird, Jon II

**AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 1 - A Rose and A Mockingbird**

 **Jon II**

Jon returned to the Great Hall in a moment of chaos. Wearing his new crown, and hoping no one would notice the ink stain on his shirt sleeve, he took his seat at the high table. Bronze Yohn Royce stood nearby, loudly proclaiming that Petyr Baelish must die for his crimes. Jon's new Lord Hand sat at the end of the table, watching the proceedings in silence. Some northern lords had joined in as well, confirming Lord Royce's words but staying well out of the Vale men's deliberations. Lyanna Mormont caught sight of Jon and his crown, and beamed. He'd never seen such a smile on the solemn little girl's face before.

"We must return to the Gates of the Moon at once!" shouted a man in the black moon and yellow sun of House Pryor. "Our liege lord is already sickly, and we don't know how much poison he has been fed! Any delay might result in his death!"

"We cannot leave when there is a war coming," Harry Hardying, Heir to the Vale, protested. "We were brought here under false pretenses, it is true; but we offered our aid to the North, and it would be craven to renege now."

"Hear, hear," called out several knights, most of them young and eager for glory.

"Our whole army could not travel so fast, in any case," Lord Melcolm wheezed. The man was old and rather frail, but he'd dressed in full plate for a spar against a slew of younger men, and wore it proudly. "Let us send a small group to White Harbor, with the fastest riders, to sail home to the Vale and take our liege lord into their protection. We _must_ get Lord Arryn away from Littlefinger's servants."

"Aye," seconded Sers Jon Elesham and Mychel Redfort.

"Eustace," ordered Lord Royce, calling a knight of House Hunter. "Aron Hersy, Edmund Waxley; you have the fastest horses. Ride to White Harbor immediately, and take the first ship south. I will send ravens to Lord Manderly and to the other Lords Declarant to explain the situation. Lady Waynwood would be glad to foster young Lord Robert for the nonce, I should think."

The young knights departed at once.

"And now, to the man himself," Lord Royce said darkly. "Petyr Baelish has abused the goodwill of our late liege lord, Jon Arryn—"

"Aye!" chorused a few young knights.

Bronze Yohn sent them a glare so frosty they froze on the spot.

"As I was saying—Petyr Baelish took advantage of our lord's generosity, and our liege lady's love for her father's foster-son. He is a man so foul that the gods themselves broke their silence to condemn him! I swear it on the honor of House Royce, by the old gods and the new; if any man should doubt me, let him ask His Grace," he shouted, pointing at Jon, "or the members of his council. They heard the gods of the First Men name Baelish a liar, and they heard Baelish confess to the murder of Lady Lysa!"

He took a deep breath. His chest heaved with emotion.

"Now, after all you have heard, is there _any_ man here who believes Petyr Baelish does _not_ deserve death?"

The man looked around the room, and not a single man spoke in favor of Littlefinger. Jon was glad; it made things so much easier!

Then Bronze Yohn frowned. "Where is Corbray?"

"He was with us in the archery practice grounds, my lord," spoke up the knight of House Belmore.

"Aye, with Gerold Grafton. They stayed behind when you summoned," added a Templeton. "I thought they'd follow us, but they did not."

Lord Royce's face turned white.

"To the dungeons," he ordered, "now!"

Jon was not sure what Lyn Corbray's absence meant, but the tone of panic in Bronze Yohn's voice made him obey immediately. He ran after the Vale men, Longclaw in hand, down to Winterfell's dungeons. Before too long, he saw two of the Winterfell guardsmen, slumped facedown in patches of red snow.

"Curse that lying, treacherous son of a whore!" roared Bronze Yohn. "How many guards were posted here, your grace?"

"Ten," Jon answered grimly.

Down the stairs they went. Lyn Corbray and Gerold Grafton, armed with Valyrian steel and Baelish gold, had killed all of the guards. Two more lay dead on the stairs, and three more at the bottom. The final three had died in front of Littlefinger's cell, guarding the traitor to the last. The cell was empty, of course.

An incandescent rage flooded Jon.

"FIND THEM!" he shouted, racing back up the stairs. Lord Royce followed, calling for his knights to saddle their horses immediately.

The courtyard and stables became a flurry of activity. Knights, Northmen, and Free Folk were searching the castle or preparing to leave, ignoring the freezing cold winds in the heat of their anger.

"I swear to you, King Jon, I will hunt this wretched beast down myself!" Bronze Yohn swore, taking his horse's reins from his wide-eyed squire and vaulting onto his saddle.

"He won't be anywhere near the castle, your grace," said Lord Melcolm. He looked devastated. "Is there no end to this man's treachery and murder?"

Sansa ran to Jon's side, preventing his reply. "He's escaped, hasn't he?" she asked, noting the angry faces. Before Jon could stop her, she turned and saw the dead guards. Her dispassionate gaze told Jon that she'd seen much worse under the Boltons and Lannisters, and his heart went out to her.

"We'll bring him back," Jon said. "Do you suppose the hounds might—?"

"Aye, they'll find him," the Hound replied, coming up behind the king. "Give them something with Littlefinger's scent, and those beasts will chase him to the ends of the earth."

"I'll find something!" Sansa promised, running towards the guest house.

"I should have known," Jon berated himself.

"You set ten men to guard a weakling thief with a silver tongue," the Hound told him, pitiless. "You could have posted a hundred, and it would have made no difference. As long as the thief has gold, and some of the guards accept it, or he has friends outside his cell, he will escape."

"I've hunted beasts north of the Wall, King Crow," Tormund told him, riding up close with a hungry grin. "One southron coward will be easy prey after that."

He rode away, followed by the rest of the mounted Free Folk.

"Shall we ride after Baelish, your grace?" offered the Lightning Lord. Jon had barely seen him today.

"You're welcome to it," Jon answered. "I suppose he'd ride down the Kingsroad, but I don't know for sure. He may be headed to White Harbor."

"The Knights of the Vale split in two," Dondarrion told him. "I heard Bronze Yohn send half to the Harbor Road, and the other half down the Kingsroad towards Cerwyn."

"Then if you're willing, ride to Torrhen's Square," Jon suggested. "He may try to take a ship down the western coast. I'd go myself, but my horse is not up to the chase," he admitted. A king would usually have the best horse, but Jon had not replaced any of his things since the Northmen had bestowed the title upon him. His horse, taken from the Night's Watch stables, was a sturdy beast meant for battle and for endurance in the cold, not speed.

Dondarrion nodded, and Jon watched as he, Thoros of Myr, and a few others of the Brotherhood saddled their horses.

The Hound snorted. "Your sister would have a fit if you _did_ ride out, your grace," he said. "Don't be stupid. Baelish has only two men with him, and I've never heard that he's an extraordinary rider."

As though summoned by the Hound's thoughts, Sansa appeared. She looked incensed.

"There's nothing in his room!" she cried. "Corbray and Grafton must have taken his things the moment we locked him in the dungeon!"

"That sounds like something he'd do," the Hound agreed. "He probably planned this weeks ahead of time, in case he was found out and had to flee in a hurry."

"Well, without a scent, how will the hounds find him?" Sansa despaired.

Jon paced like a caged wolf, so angry he could barely think. Then, he remembered smelling Baelish as Ghost earlier today. He might understand if Jon asked him to hunt Baelish.

 _Ghost_ , he thought desperately. _I need you, boy!_

Suddenly, the world shifted, and Jon _was_ Ghost.

Smells became unbearably strong. Familiar scents overwhelmed him—his man-wolf, whose body had fallen to the ground while his mind rode with Ghost; the flowers his red packmate used to wash; the unique scent of the friendly man with the short paw. From his current spot near the kitchens, the wolf could smell every meal that the men had eaten today, and his belly rumbled.

 _No_ , Jon thought frantically, _we have to find Baelish first!_

Ghost sniffed the ground. He remembered the scent of the weasel-man. It was mint and sandalwood and deceit, with a healthy dose of fear when the white wolf was too close for comfort.

There!

He'd found a trail. The white wolf dashed out of the open gates, running at top speed. The sun was falling already; the men-hunters would need to stop soon. He must find the weasel-man before then.

On he ran, smelling winter in the air. This was his home; this was where he'd been born, he remembered. Long ago, when the man-rock did not smell of fire. This was where his man-wolf had found him, a pup crawling alone and starving. His man-wolf had been a pup himself. Ghost could not allow the weasel-man to destroy his home, or the last two humans in his pack.

 _Little sister_ , he thought mournfully, _you should be here, hunting the weasel-man with me_. She was the last, he knew it. He had felt his packmates' presence even when the forests and rivers separated them, but four of the six were gone now. Only the white wolf and the wild sister remained. She was far to the south, leading a pack of small gray cousins.

Before long, Ghost had caught up to the human hunting pack. He knew their scent well by now; they smelled of the lands north of the tall man-ice, where the dead men walked.

"Look at 'im go!" hollered their pack leader, pointing at Ghost. "We must be going the right way, fellas. Leave some for us, Ghost!"

Their horses were slow. Ghost left them far behind, snow crunching beneath his paws. Soon he had caught up to another group of men, the ones that smelled like summer and steel. The massive white wolf caught the sharp scent of terror as they saw him, a silent shadow flying across the snow next to the flat man-rocks. Their horses were afraid too, but the men-hunters would not let them flee.

Ghost ignored them. He more dangerous prey to hunt.

The sun disappeared behind the trees. The great white direwolf followed the road south, unrelenting, with Jon encouraging him. The animals of the Wolfswood fled, as they usually did when direwolves and men hunted. Then the moon rose, and Ghost heard the distant howling of small cousins. He ignored the howls, silent as always.

Just as he'd begun to tire, he heard three horses galloping down the flat man-rocks. His prey was in the center, as befitted the weakest member of any pack. Quickly, before they saw him and used their metal claws, Ghost jumped at the middle horse and bit its hindquarters. Blood and warm flesh flooded his mouth as the horse screamed, and the weasel-man fell hard.

"Direwolf! Corbray! Grafton!" he shouted, and the other men slowed their horses, turning to face Ghost. The steel claws came out, glinting in the moonlight, and much longer than the weasel-man's. Ghost knew he would have to kill these others before he could kill his true prey. The two knights dismounted.

"Come on, you filthy beast," shouted the closest one, waving his claw. He lunged, and Ghost jumped aside, turning quickly. With one swipe of his massive paw, the man's leg buckled, and he fell backward into the snow. Ghost knew better than to bite his metal skin; instead, he dove in and ripped out his throat. The man's last, high-pitched scream hurt the wolf's ears.

That left the weasel-man and the other one. His claw was different.

 _Valyrian steel_ , thought Jon, though this meant little to Ghost. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his prey, walking slowly toward the dead man's horse. Immediately, the great wolf chased after the man, his jaws closing around the nearest part—his foreleg.

The weasel-man shrieked in pain. "Corbray, kill it!" he ordered, unable to free himself from Ghost's jaws.

The direwolf saw the other man coming. He couldn't let go of his prey, or he would run; he knew men didn't need their forelegs to walk or to run—but the other man was more dangerous, and he had the strange metal claw. Conflicted, the wolf tried to drag the weasel-man away, while he screamed and wept in agony.

But Lyn Corbray had other ideas. He lunged, his claw wounding Ghost's side. The cut was not deep, but the wolf could no longer resist the urge to kill. He gave one final, powerful tug, and he felt the weasel-man's bones _crunch_. The weasel-man's arm came off entirely, and Ghost turned, satisfied, to face his new opponent.

 _Careful, Ghost_ , thought Jon desperately. _Stay away from that blade._

Ghost wished his sister's pack were nearer. A wolf was not meant to hunt alone, especially not smart prey like humans. But these two humans were a threat to his pack. Alone or not, Ghost had to stop them.

 _Jon_ , he heard suddenly. _Jon, please, wake up!_

It was the red packmate—Sansa! She was crying, and Ghost felt phantom teardrops land on his face. Lyn Corbray slashed at the wolf, who moved away quickly, and struck a blow himself, making the man cry out. Ghost had taken two fingers from his clawless hand.

 _Don't leave me alone_ , begged the Princess in the North.

 _He's not dying, Princess_ , said a raspy voice Jon knew to be the Hound's. _He's having a fit of some sort._

 _What kind of fit lasts for hours?_

The dead man's horse had run away, and the weasel-man lay on the flat rocks, weeping and shaking in a puddle of his own blood. He had ripped some of his false black man-fur to stop the bleeding in his foreleg, but he was too weak to escape, just as Ghost had intended. His horse, too, lay dying in the snow from Ghost's attack. The only escape was the man with the metal claw, and _his_ horse.

 _Come back, Jon!_ Ghost heard as he struck again, this time striking the man's metal skin. It bent under his powerful jaws, but did not break. The man limped away, cursing.

"Go on, you stupid wolf," Corbray said viciously. "You want to taste my steel? Then have a lick of _this_ , big boy."

He lunged again, and this time the blade caught Ghost in the foreleg. It _hurt_! The direwolf retaliated immediately, using his bulk to force the man down and ripping out his face and throat, but Jon's control began to slip. He watched, helpless, as his wounded friend turned back to Littlefinger, who had used his distraction to reach Corbray's horse. He mounted clumsily, swaying like a drunkard. The poor horse galloped away, startled, and soon Ghost's prey was riding as fast as he dared, a speed the direwolf could no longer match with his injury.

 _No!_ thought Jon, _We can't let him get away!_

But Ghost was tired, and wounded, and unwilling to follow commands anymore. Jon felt the great wolf push him out of his mind and back into his own. The scents of the world dulled, and the fierce ache in his left foreleg—arm, rather—disappeared.

"No!" Jon shouted, waking up in the Lord's chamber at Winterfell.


	6. A Rose and A Mockingbird, Jon III

**AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 1 - A Rose and A Mockingbird**

 **Jon III**

His sister, Ser Davos, and the Hound stood around Sansa's bed, watching Jon carefully.

"Jon!" Sansa cried, throwing herself into his arms. "What happened to you?"

"I was fighting Lyn Corbray," Jon explained, his throat dry. "I killed Grafton and ripped off Littlefinger's arm, but Corbray stabbed me, and then I couldn't chase him any further."

Sansa pulled away, blinking in confusion. She was too polite to say what she was thinking, at least in front of his Lord Hand and a near stranger, but Jon saw skepticism in her face.

"What are you nattering about, boy? You haven't left this castle," the Hound said for her.

"No, I don't mean in this body," Jon said impatiently. "I meant as Ghost."

Ser Davos' jaw dropped. "So the wildling rumors are true? You really are a skinchanger, your grace?"

"Aye," Jon replied, falling back onto Sansa's bed. "I dream I'm Ghost when I sleep, sometimes, but I've never been able to enter Ghost's mind at will before. But I was _so_ angry, and Ghost remembered Littlefinger's scent from this morning. He tracked him all the way down the Kingsroad."

"You scared me," Sansa chastised. She looked terrible. She still wore her Tully-blue gown and her winter rose circlet, but her eyes were bloodshot and her face was puffy from crying. Her auburn hair was messier than Jon had ever seen it.

"I'm sorry," the King in the North apologized. "Did you never dream you were Lady, Sansa?"

Sansa looked down at her hands. "Only once, now that you mention it," she said slowly, "but I didn't realize what it meant. And she died so long ago, I'd almost forgotten," she finished mournfully.

"Ghost can sense Nymeria to the south," Jon told her, grinning at the memory. "She formed a new pack with ordinary wolves, and they've been terrorizing our enemies in the Riverlands. If Ghost can't catch up to Baelish, Nymeria might."

The Hound had listened to this explanation in a fascinated silence. Now he spoke up.

"Your wolf ripped off Littlefinger's arm, you said?"

"Aye, just to the elbow. He staunched the bleeding with his cloak, but he lost quite a bit of blood."

"Well," the Hound said cheerfully. "It may not be the clean death you planned for him, but it's death all the same. He has no maester, no protectors, and no friends north of the Twins, and it's fucking _cold_ up here. Even if your men can't catch him, he's a dead man."

"I won't believe it until I see his head on a spike," Sansa told them angrily.

"I agree," Jon said. "We'll see if any of the riders catch up to him; I passed Tormund's men and Hardying's on my way," he told them.

Whatever doubts Jon's sister and Hand might have felt vanished when Ghost turned up the next evening, bloodied and limping and carrying a half-frozen piece of human arm. The frostbitten ring finger bore a signet with a mockingbird. The hand was free of knightly calluses from weapons training, such as Corbray or Grafton might have had. It was Littlefinger's.

"Skinchanging, eh?" the Hound murmured to Sansa. "Wish _I_ could skinchange into my sigil. It would be intersting to know what those dogs are thinking, though they'd probably beg for food more often if they knew we were listening."

Jon blinked, looking at Clegane in shock. He had never heard the man jape before. From Sansa's bemused expression, neither had she.

The king and the new Winterfell master of horse tended to the injured direwolf themselves. Though Jon might have taken Ghost to the kennelmaster as a pup, the wolf was larger than a pony these days. It took all of Jon's growing skinchanging skill to keep the animal still as his wounds were cleaned, stitched, and dressed, so he had little concentration to spare for anything else. Through Ghost's weary eyes, he watched as Hardying's Vale knights rode back to Winterfell, carrying two covered corpses on a makeshift sled.

"Your wolf made short work of these two traitors, your grace," Harry the Heir told Jon, once the king had left his direwolf to sleep and recover. "I'd heard tales of your brother riding into battle with his direwolf, but only now do I believe them. And we recovered this beauty," he added with relish, brandishing a sword. Jon remembered it well; it was the Valyrian steel blade that had injured Ghost.

"Lady Forlorn," Ser Harrold said, admiring his prize. "I suppose this belongs to Lyonel Corbray now, but only if he had no part in his brother's treachery, or Littlefinger's plots against our little liege lord."

"Is he much like his brother?" Jon asked neutrally.

"No, not at all," the Vale man replied. "But unless I miss my guess, the whole family is in Littlefinger's pocket. Lyonel just married a merchant girl from the Fingers," he confided, "and really, who else would have brokered _that_ match? The Corbrays are an old, respectable house, and this wench's only redeeming feature was her enormous dowry—or so says Aunt Anya, anyway."

He returned Lady Forlorn to its scabbard. "I think I'll keep this for now. We'll need the Valyrian steel to fight your White Walkers," he decided.

Jon could not disagree with that, even if he disliked Hardying's tone. He knew the Knights of the Vale were skeptical, and he could only brush off their remarks. They'd see the truth soon enough. "That we do, ser."

There was nothing else he could do for now. The Brotherhood men who'd gone in search of Baelish returned within the fortnight, having found no one between Winterfell and Barrowton matching Petyr Baelish's description. To Jon's surprise, Lady Mormont had revealed an unexpected, but ladylike, talent for drawing; this very moment, ravens were spreading an uncanny charcoal likeness of Littlefinger to every keep in the North. Villages from the Neck to the Wall would have pictures of Petyr Baelish posted under a black sword and the crowned Stark direwolf, telling even the most illiterate peasants that Baelish was to be killed on sight, by order of the King in the North.

He hoped it would be enough.

When the Brotherhood had returned, Thoros of Myr approached Jon in the courtyard, where he trained against three Knights of the Vale. The priest watched, occasionally suggesting improvements, and clapped when the bout had finished. The three knights lay on the ground while Jon stood, catching his breath.

"You have a natural talent for the sword, your grace," the Red Priest told him.

"I have," Jon replied, "but I didn't have sparring partners at the Wall that could better my skill, save one. I'm out of practice."

His humiliating defeat to Mance Rayder—disguised as Rattleshirt—was not something he liked to think about, but it was better than thinking of Mance's death—or his babe, long gone south with Sam and Gilly.

"I believe you," Thoros was saying. "Tell me, King Jon, have you ever heard of Azor Ahai?"

"No," Jon answered with a shrug.

The priest raised an eyebrow. "I thought you might have heard the legend from the Lady Melisandre."

Immediately, Jon's face turned as dark as the night. " _Don't_ speak to me of that woman."

"She used to think Stannis Baratheon was Azor Ahai reborn," the Red Priest insisted, following Jon when he turned away in disgust. "But she was wrong, your grace. Stannis Baratheon was never reborn amidst salt and smoke— _you_ were. You are the Prince That Was Promised."

Jon took the priest by the neck and slammed him against the stable wall. "And if I was, what then? Am I to find a wife, just so I can stab her in the breast to forge a sword of fire? I am _not_ anyone's Prince That Was Promised, priest, and I want _nothing_ to do with a god that feeds children to the flames for good weather! Leave. Me. Be!"

The man winced, but did not fight. He only watched Jon with eyes full of pity.

"You will learn," he said, irritating Jon with his certainty. "Ignore it if you will, but your destiny will follow you, your grace."

He didn't speak to Jon directly for the rest of the Brotherhood's stay in Winterfell. Jon did not seek him out, preferring to stay far away from the Red God and his fanatics. He spent many evenings in his bedchamber, flat on his bed, trying to see through Ghost's eyes. It was becoming easier now, and he heard and saw many things he had not expected.

Sansa loved to visit Ghost and bring him treats, petting his fur absently and talking about the goings on inside the castle. Ghost saw her as part of his pack, there was no question about it. Even with his stitched-up wounds, he hovered protectively if strange men came near her. But others had come to visit as well.

The Hound had come once, and shared some roasted chicken with the injured direwolf. Jon had been so surprised that he'd fallen back into his own skin. Harry the Heir had also come, and he'd been brave enough to pet the wolf. Jon had been forced to stop Ghost from giving the green knight a playful nip. Ser Davos and Tormund were more frequent—and less shocking—visitors.

One morning, while Jon bathed in the hot springs after training with the Free Folk, he'd met Beric Dondarrion and his squire. That had led—quite naturally—to a comparison of murder scars, each accompanied by a grisly story on the older man's side. The Lightning Lord's squire, a Dornishman named Edric Dayne, looked on, fascinated. The idea of coming back over and over, and losing parts of his soul bit by bit, terrified Jon more than any death. He didn't know how Dondarrion could stand it.

"I have no choice," the Lightning Lord told him when asked. "I've work yet to do before I earn my rest, so I must do it."

As his master scrubbed thoughtfully at his beard, the squire approached Jon timidly.

"Your grace," he said carefully, "do you know aught of your mother?"

Jon blinked. He had not been prepared for such a question, especially not from a Dornish lordling.

"Nothing at all," answered the King in the North. "What of it?"

The squire's ears went red. "Well—I thought you might wish to know—we're milk brothers, you and I."

Jon's mouth fell open. "What?"

"My lady mother had no milk when I was born," he explained, "so she hired a wet-nurse from Starfall. Her name is Wylla, and she —"

"Go on," Jon said, eager to hear more.

"She told me she had a little boy in the North, whom she'd left behind with Lord Stark. She knew you'd be cared for, but she missed you, all the same."

"So my mother was your wet-nurse?" the king clarified, hardly believing that the mystery was solved at long last.

"Well," Edric said slowly, "no, I don't think she was. I thought so, when I was younger, but Wylla was a very respectable lady, or Mother would not have hired her. It's more likely that she was your wet-nurse, too. Lord Stark came to Starfall to return my uncle Arthur's sword, and Mother said he brought a babe _with_ him, now that I think on it. But Wylla was always vague when your lord father was mentioned, almost like she was protecting your mother."

Jon cursed under his breath.

"Sorry, your grace," the younger man told him sheepishly. "I wish I knew more, truly."

"Never mind, Lord Dayne," the king told him.

"Ned," the squire said suddenly, his ears red again. "My friends call me Ned."

The boy's shyness reminded Jon painfully of Bran. They looked to be about the same age, his half-brother and his milk brother.

"Well," he offered kindly, "if we're milk brothers, that should make us friends, don't you think? I'll call you Ned if you'll call me Jon."

Ned grinned broadly, his blue-purple eyes shining. "The King in the North and the next Sword of the Morning, friends for life," he agreed. "Wylla will be proud of us both."

They began sparring together in the mornings. Edric was a natural swordsman, and slightly taller and broader than Jon, but he was not quite ready to claim Dawn, his family's ancestral blade. Jon learned very quickly that this was Ned's dream, and had been for a long time. The Daynes insisted that he must be knighted before becoming Sword of the Morning, _if_ he ever proved worthy.

"I never imagined I'd be squiring for a captain of outlaws," he admitted to Jon once, when they were washing up after a strenuous workout. "But Lord Beric really does care about the smallfolk in a way most lords don't. I don't know what I'd do if he died again, and Thoros didn't bring him back."

"What more do you need to do, to become a knight?" Jon asked curiously.

"Lord Beric or the king need to decide I'm worthy, and then I can stand vigil, be anointed in front of the Seven, and take my vows," Ned replied, shrugging. Then he remembered who he was talking to, and grinned. "How about it, Jon?"

This drew a startled laugh from the King in the North. "I don't know anything about the Seven!"

"You could make me a knight in the sight of the old gods," the squire suggested. "I'll stand vigil in the godswood, and swear to be brave and defend the young and innocent in the name of the old gods instead of the new."

"And what would your family say? I'm sure the Dornish care _very deeply_ about the King in the North's opinion and the gods of the First Men," Jon answered, brutally honest.

"The Daynes have First Men blood too, Jon," Edric argued. "They're more likely to appreciate your judgment than the judgment of little Tommen Baratheon, really."

Jon grinned and shook his head. "Well, I'm glad they value my opinion on martial matters more than a little boy's. But Lord Beric lives yet, Ned, and he has the right to knight you for now. I would not usurp his place."

Ned's pout would have put Arya's to shame.

After a few days in his company, Jon was sorry to see his milk brother go. He didn't mind seeing the back of Anguy, the Red Priest, or even Lord Beric, who made Jon uncomfortable, but Ned Dayne was a good egg—far too good for the company he kept. Sansa was even sorrier to see the Hound leave, though she'd given him a parting gift. Sandor Clegane wore a new cloak, thick and warm with black fur trim at the neck, and an embroidered sigil of three black dogs on a yellow field. The exquisite needlework could only be Sansa's.

"Don't look so severe, Jon," she chided, coming to stand beside him as the Brotherhood rode away. "He earned it several times over—not only with Baelish, but in King's Landing, when no one else would stand up for me."

"I didn't say anything! I think it's a fine gift," Jon shrugged.

"You could smile a bit more, then," Sansa told him, smirking at him from beneath her winter rose crown.

Jon wore his own bronze circlet, though the strange weight on his head took some getting used to. He had to bow lower than usual to fit through the smaller doorways around the castle, and he'd knocked his crown to the floor several times already, though luckily not in front of his men.

"If I smiled more, they wouldn't know it was me," Jon japed.

His sister laughed. "Yes, you're right; a King of Winter must always be stern and solemn, and only smile in his private quarters. We Starks have a reputation to maintain."

The outer gates closed, blocking the Brotherhood Without Banners from view.

"Did you know my milk brother rides with them?" he told Sansa.

"Your _what_?"

"Milk brother. Apparently I shared a wet-nurse with the current Lord of Starfall," Jon explained to her. "He's not quite legendary yet, but someday he might claim Dawn, the famous sword of House Dayne, and become Sword of the Morning. He doesn't know who my mother was, though," he added, before Sansa could ask about her.

"Well," Sansa said, raising her eyebrows, "as long as _this_ Dayne wields his sword to help a Stark, and not to kill one, I'm all for it. Now come," she ordered, taking his gloved hand in hers. "We need to head to the kitchens. We have a celebration to plan."

"Celebration of what?" Jon asked cautiously. "We haven't caught Littlefinger yet, and _he's_ not worth a feast. Maybe we could have one for Ghost, when he recovers."

Sansa made an impatient tsk. "Others take Littlefinger! I meant a celebration for _you_ , silly! It's not every day the king turns two-and-twenty!"

And ignoring his protests, the Crown Princess led Jon inside the castle.

* * *

 **Willam - an Interlude**

They'd been preparing their traps when the bloodied horse rode in, carrying a slumped figure on his back. The beast's sudden stop knocked the poor soul off its back, and the dead man fell to the snow.

"Willam!" cried Mother, rushing to the fallen man. "Beron, come here!"

Willam and his brother obeyed, following their mother. Edwylla, Beron's wife, took charge of the spooked horse, soothing him as only she could.

They turned the man over, and Mother clucked in sympathy at him. His left arm was a stump, hastily bandaged with bits of black cloak. The man was a stranger, and clearly wealthy, by his dress.

"He's alive!" breathed Mother, feeling the man's breath against her hand. "Barely, but he lives! Help me carry him!"

Their home wasn't far; Willam's family lived in a tiny hunter's village on the banks of the White Knife, far from the great castles of the North. They kept to their own in the summers, and when the winters roared, the entire village would pack up and head for the winter town outside Winterfell. Had the dying man arrived a fortnight later, he and his horse would have died alone in an empty village.

Beron and Willam placed the man on the nearest empty bed—Grandfather's. Immediately, Mother knelt beside him and got to work, calling for bandages, for hot water, for her tools. Edwylla returned, carrying the man's belongings in a saddlebag.

"He's got letters here," she said, holding one up, "but no one can read them. Got this, as well," she added, showing them a blue banner with a bird and a moon on it.

"At least he ain't a Bolton," Beron said, wincing in sympathy as Mother cleaned the terrible bite.

"It's infected," she murmured. "Edwylla, bring that candle here." As her good-daughter obeyed, the older woman peered closer with her sharp gray eyes. "He's fevered and the skin here is already rotting. If there's any hope for this poor man, I must take the rest of the arm."

"It's a death all the same, Mother," Beron objected.

"Pish!" Mother replied impatiently. "Use your eyes, boy! This man never worked with his hands," she observed. "And he ain't no knight, neither. This here is some southron lordling, prob'ly riding to Winterfell to talk to them lords. He can do that with one arm."

"Shall I get Alyna?" Willam offered. The lass was Mother's apprentice, and steady with the knife.

"Aye, do," she replied. "Tell her to bring her herbs and things."

Alyna was already gathering her things when Willam knocked.

"Don't be daft, Wil!" she teased. "I knew your ma would call for me as soon as that poor man rode in."

They ran back to Willam's home. As the village healer's son, Wil had plenty of practice holding down screaming men as his mother tended to their hurts, but it never got easier. The southron stranger, who had not woken at all, finally woke when Mother and Alyna sawed his upper arm clean off. Wil knew that the maesters in the big castles had something to dull the pain, called milk of the poppy, but his ma had none of that. The man's screams were terrible, and he called for strange people and places in his delirium.

"CAT!" he howled, when Alyna applied the heated metal to his shortened stump. The sizzle of cooking meat filled the small cabin.

"Poor man," clucked Mother. "Whoever his Cat is, I hope she misses him as much as he misses her! He's had his share of pain already," she added, showing Alyna the old scar running down the stranger's torso.

"That's quite old," the apprentice replied, inspecting the old wound carefully. "I wonder if he fought in the Rebellion."

"He don't have the muscles for it," Mother told her. "I doubt he was ever a soldier. Now, Alyna, we must fight the foulness in his blood. Do you remember what to use for the tea and poultice?"

"Aye," Alyna answered, going to the table where she'd left her pack. She removed small wooden boxes and metal tins, each full of some herb or mold. Willam watched her, fascinated by her graceful movements. She wasn't quite pretty, Alyna, but she was remarkable all the same.

She finished her mixing and returned to the bedside, carrying a paste that Mother spread over some bandages and wrapped around the stump, and a mug of tea that smelled horrible. Together, they helped the unconscious man drink it all.

As Mother undressed the unfortunate man to help him sleep, she rolled down his stockings and cursed. Two of his toes were frostbitten on the left foot, and as she uncovered the right foot, she saw another blackened toe.

"The gods have it in for this man," she murmured. "I'll have to take the toes before they rot."

* * *

A week later, the stranger finally woke.

"Hello there, milord," Mother said cheerfully. "You've slept a long time. Do you know where you are?"

He shook his head, blinking up at them with gray-green eyes.

"Aye, I didn't think you did," she told him. "You rode in on your last legs, bleeding all over that fancy horse of yours. Our village don't have a name, rightly, but it's home. We're on the White Knife River. What's your name, milord?"

Frantic eyes darted around the tiny hut, to Mother, to Willam, and back.

"Lyn," he said at last. "Lyn Corbray, from the Vale of Arryn."

"Fancy that!" Mother cried. "We ain't never met a southron before. Were you heading to Winterfell, when you was attacked?"

Lyn looked at his left arm, his eyes wide with horror. The sight of the bandaged stump brought him little comfort.

"No," he said. "I was riding south, home to the Vale. I have urgent business there."

"Well, milord, you'll have to wait, I'm afraid. You've only just beaten the infection."

"Is there a maester here?" he asked.

Mother laughed. "Summer child, we ain't got no maesters! They only care for the lords in their castles! All we got in town is me, Old Beth, and my poultices. But winter is here, so we'll head to the winter town soon. We would have gone earlier, but we stayed to tend your wounds, milord. Surely you can see the maester and send messages from Winterfell. We hear the Starks took their home a few months back," she added approvingly. "Beron heard it from White Harbor."

Willam expected relief from this mysterious Lyn Corbray, perhaps joy that he'd be with the King in the North instead of a hunter's family and an old healer, but there was nothing. He looked frozen.

It should have surprised Wil, when he returned home the next day, a brace of winter hares over his shoulder, and found the house empty, but it did not. Lyn Corbray was gone, and so was his fancy horse. The blackguard had stolen food from several of their neighbors, as well as their own supply, and fled.

"We should have let him die!" Beron cried angrily, holding a tearful Edwylla. They'd have to find lots of meat now, if they wished to survive the journey to Winterfell.

"Aye, we should," Willam replied slowly. He'd always heard that southrons were not to be trusted, and this only proved it. "But Mother would never have allowed it. It is her way. And the gods have their own punishments in store for such men."

It was cold comfort, especially when Edwylla revealed that she was with child, but Willam only worked harder, setting his traps and trying to spear-fish as the game became scarcer. He must feed his family and keep them safe, and he would.

He had to.

* * *

 ** _I know, I know. You probably expected Littlefinger to die. But Littlefinger doesn't deserve a Stark beheading; it's too clean for the likes of him. And he was never going to sit around and wait to be executed, at least in this story. All he's done is exchange a clean death for an agonizing slow one, but never fear; he will die, and everyone he's wronged will want a piece of him now._**

 ** _That's it for Part 1! Next time, we begin_ The Song's Song _, a short story that brings Jaime Lannister and Howland Reed to Winterfell._**


	7. The Son's Song, Sansa III

**AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 2 - The Son's Song**

 _Horrified by his sister's actions in King's Landing, Jaime Lannister sails north with a few trustworthy men. There are rumors of an impending invasion from beyond the Wall, and Ser Jaime would much rather die fighting than watch his mad sister, Euron Greyjoy, and Daenerys Targaryen burn the city he saved from Aerys. To his great surprise, the Kingslayer and the King in the North have more in common than they supposed._

 _Then Howland Reed's arrival exposes a long-kept secret, and Jaime Lannister receives a new challenge._

 **Sansa III**

The morning was cold, as were all mornings these days. Winterfell lay under a blanket of pristine snow, with a pale Sun peeking out above the clouds. The castle was an island of noise and activity in the endless, silent white of the North.

As Lady Sansa Stark and King Jon Snow strolled along the castle courtyard, inspecting their bannermen's soldiers at their training, the clash of steel and wood was interrupted by a cry of alarm from above.

"Your grace! There are riders approaching the gate!" called a watchman from atop the wall.

"How many? Do they bear a sigil?" asked Jon.

"It's a lion, your grace! There are fifty of them or thereabouts," the guard replied. "They're raising a flag of truce."

Jon turned to Sansa, his grey eyes questioning. His hand tightened over hers. "You're the expert on Lannisters, Sansa." _Do we trust them enough to open?_ he asked wordlessly.

Sansa looked around the courtyard. Between the local men, Jon's wildlings, and the bannermen's men that had come with their lords, Winterfell had over three hundred men inside. The chances that these fifty southrons would take the castle were slim. Slowly, she made up her mind and nodded her assent.

"Open the gates," Jon ordered.

To their great surprise, at the front of the column rode Jaime Lannister. He was much older and thinner than he'd been when Jon had seen him last, though Sansa remembered how gaunt he'd appeared when he'd returned to King's Landing with Brienne. That good lady froze behind Sansa.

"What brings the Kingslayer to Winterfell?" asked Ser Davos, stepping forward. The _without an army?_ went unsaid.

Jaime looked at him in confusion, possibly trying to place the southron-sounding man among all the Northmen.

"I would request an audience with the King in the North," Ser Jaime replied. "Who are you, ser?"

"I am Davos Seaworth, Hand of the King," replied the older man.

Sansa saw Jaime's eyes widen in surprise. "Stannis Baratheon's Hand?"

"I was," replied Davos in his frank way. "But Stannis Baratheon is dead. I serve Jon Snow, the King in the North."

"You must be a good Hand, then," remarked the Kingslayer, raising a golden eyebrow. "Or a disloyal one. Will King Jon see me?"

"I will," said Jon, leaving Sansa's side. Ser Jaime turned, startled. Sansa saw his eyes widen and his face turn pale, and for a moment she felt gleeful, sure that the man was seeing her father's ghost instead of Jon. Her brother was certainly not the unblooded boy he'd seen during King Robert's visit, with his hardened features, growing beard, and the enormous white direwolf at his side. With his haunted grey eyes, his hair pulled back like Father's, and the cloak she'd made for him, Jon was a young Eddard Stark come again.

"Lords of the council, Princess," Jon said, nodding at the northern lords and Sansa, "Let us go into the Great Hall and hear what Ser Jaime has to say."

"Leave your men and horses here," Ser Davos instructed. "They will be attended to in your absence."

"And surrender any weapons on your person," ordered Lord Manderly, "or we shall remove them by force."

Jaime Lannister looked deeply unhappy, but he did as he was bid. Sansa had never seen him so subdued. As he surrendered his weapons, Jon took Sansa's arm and led her inside, where they sat at the high table. Jon sat in the Stark of Winterfell's chair, with Sansa on his right and Davos on his left. The rest of the council filed in, murmuring curiously. No one had any idea what Ser Jaime might want.

"His sister means to demand fealty from us," the Norrey guessed, furious. "She must know we'll _never_ submit to a southron again. They're all mad."

"Even _he_ wouldn't be so bold," protested Lord Glover. "Walk into his enemy's castle and demand his surrender, with only fifty men? There's some treachery afoot."

"Mayhaps she wants a marriage alliance with the Jon," the Flint suggested, looking horrified at the very thought.

"Well, _that_ is never going to happen," Jon replied, sounding equally disgusted. "Cersei Lannister, Queen in the North? Never!"

Sansa shuddered in relief. If there was one thing she didn't want, it was to be Cersei Lannister's sister again!

The chatter ceased as Jaime Lannister walked in, now weaponless. He looked smaller now, without the mocking smile and the glittering armor and white cloak. Dressed in plain leathers and thick wool, with his long, golden hair now short and turning gray, he was a different man.

"Very well, Ser Jaime, let's hear it," sighed Jon, preparing himself for the worst. "What does your sister want?"

"I'm not here on her behalf," the Kingslayer said, to scoffs from the Northern Council. "Cersei has lost her mind. She blew up the Sept of Baelor with wildfire, and is forging an alliance with Euron Greyjoy. She cares nothing for the common people within the city."

"Casterly Rock is _that_ way," pointed Lord Cerwyn, earning chuckles from the others.

"I know where it is," replied the Lion of Lannister tightly. Sansa could see a haunted expression in those green eyes that hadn't been there when she'd seen him last. "I'm no use there. I heard from a source I trust that you need men here, to defend the Wall."

"We do," Jon answered, nodding at the Kingslayer. "In fact, part of our army will head north tomorrow, to reinforce the castles along the Wall. But we have a problem, Lannister."

The man waited a moment for Jon to speak. When he did not, he looked at him quizzically.

"My council tells me that Lady Catelyn Stark struck a bargain with you, when you were Robb's prisoner. You would go free, in exchange for Sansa and Arya's freedom. As one might expect from a Lannister, you broke that promise."

"Lady Arya was still in the capital when I left!" protested Ser Jaime. "I didn't know she was lost until I returned!"

"But Princess Sansa was in the Red Keep," Lyanna Mormont said coldly. "Did you free her?"

"I did not," the blond man admitted. "She was married to my brother before I could do anything. But I sent Lady Brienne in my stead, when she disappeared from King's Landing" he added, nodding at the lady standing against the wall.

"The point remains, Ser Jaime," Jon finished in his most royal tones, which Sansa had made him practice until he sounded kingly. "The Kingdom of the North offered terms, which you accepted. You did not keep those terms. We've seen nothing of Princess Arya since my father lost his head."

"He attacked Father, too," Sansa spoke up. She'd almost forgotten about the whole affair, with Father's arrest so soon after. "He attacked Father and his men in King's Landing, and wounded him in the leg. Jory died that day."

Those who hadn't been in King's Landing muttered angrily. Jon's grey eyes were furious.

"Your mother kidnapped Tyrion!" the Kingslayer cried, exasperated. "She had _no_ proof that Tyrion had done anything to your little brother, but she dragged him to the Eyrie and your mad aunt Lysa threw him into a sky cell! I just wanted my brother back!"

"If you'd waited for the trial, you would have gotten him back!" Sansa replied, her voice rising in anger. "You cut Father down when he'd had nothing to do with it!"

"Yes," said the Kingslayer, looking at Sansa in sudden disdain. "And my sister only arrested Eddard Stark because a red-haired traitor in his camp told Cersei his plans to run home. Little Sansa Stark killed her father long before Ilyn Payne took his head, because she was so _desperate_ to marry sweet, handsome Joffrey, that she turned on her own family. Think on _that_ before you blame me for old Ned's death, and while you're at it, Rickard Stark's death, and the winter, and the state of the roads!"

Sansa fell back as if he'd slapped her. The truth of his accusation stung more than any of Ramsay Bolton's twisted punishments, and there had been many of those. _I didn't know_ , she wanted to scream. _How was I to know? Cersei seemed so kind then, so understanding! Oh, Father, what have I done?_

"ENOUGH!" shouted Jon, rising to his feet.

"How was Sansa, a mere child, to know the depths of your family's dishonor?" the King in the North said, and his men cheered him on. "I know Lady Stark did wrong in kidnapping your brother, but she is long dead, at the hands of _your_ family as well as the Boltons and the scum-sucking Freys. And you, treacherous as you are, remain alive after all this time. So what shall we do with you, Jaime Lannister?"

Sansa felt a stab of irritation that Jon would speak ill of her mother, but he was right; it had been a stupid move for Mother to make. After being married to him, Sansa knew Tyrion Lannister better than any Stark, and he would not have murdered a crippled boy. For the first time, Sansa realized that Catelyn Stark had been just as responsible for her ill-treatment at the Lannisters' hands as Robb. It was not a happy thought.

"Cut off his head!" shouted Tormund. For once, instead of disagreeing with the wildling out of principle, the Northmen agreed with the Free Folk.

"Send him to the Wall! Let 'im freeze his bollocks off with the Watch!" shouted Lord Glover.

"The Wall is too good for the likes o' him!" protested the Wull.

"Feed 'im to the direwolf!" shouted a Cerwyn bannerman.

"Nay, the direwolf is a proper northern beast. It would be sick at the taste o' his southron arse," one of Tormund's men argued.

Jon raised a hand, and the noise died down, surprising Sansa. The Northmen were loud by nature, and not easily dismissed. It was a mark of their respect for Jon (and Father) that they listened to him so readily.

"I can see that this will take some thought. While we decide what to do with you, _Ser_ Jaime Lannister, you may have bread and salt in our most comfortable cell. Your men are free to return south if they wish, or they may head north to Castle Black, if they truly came to help."

"You'll have to lock me up with the blond bastard," said a voice from the past. Sansa looked up, startled to see her first husband's hired killer, Bronn, step out of the shadows and stand beside Ser Jaime.

"Loyalty at last? I'm touched," the Lannister told the sellsword.

"Nah, I just figure I could wander up North again, freeze my cock off, or stay here where it's warm and there's food, see?"

Jon raised an eyebrow at the odd man. "And who are you?"

"Ser Bronn of the Blackwater," replied the sellsword, ignoring or forgetting Jon's title. "I was the little lord's hired sword, then I taught his brother to fight one-handed."

"A man of many skills, I'm sure," Jon replied, puzzled. "But I have no cause to lock you in the cells, Ser Bronn."

"Right," said Bronn cheerfully. He looked around the room, spotted Tormund, and attempted to punch him in the face. He struck the wildling's nose, though not as hard as he'd intended. Immediately, Tormund and five other wildlings had taken his arms and legs, immobilizing him.

"I picked a fight in your hall, King of the North," he said calmly, as though he weren't trapped by men who'd gut him in a flash. "Now you can lock me up and keep your conscience clear."

Sansa saw Jon shake his head in disgust, and motion for his wildlings to remove the two southrons.


	8. The Son's Song, Jon IV

**AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 2 - The Son's Song**

 **Jon IV**

Ignoring his council's advice, Jon headed to the dungeons after the midday meal. He was still unsure about Jaime Lannister and his sellsword friend. Had they done something worth a death sentence, or were their actions justified by the War of the Five Kings? If Jon executed them now, would that mean the war had never ended, and had _six_ kings instead of five? He had no ready answer for this.

Ghost padded silently alongside his master, a white shadow following a black one. The guards stepped aside without a word as Jon entered, and took a torch to light his way. They hadn't spared more than a single tallow candle for the prisoners. It was barely enough light to identify the lumps on the floor as men.

Jaime Lannister lay on his bed of straw, fiddling with a loose thread in his doublet while Bronn of the Blackwater snored. The approaching torchlight gave Jon away at once.

"Ah, a visitor," drawled the Kingslayer. "And you've come to threaten me with your wolf, how quaint. I should tell you that I've already lived through this song and dance with your brother and _his_ wolf."

"I'm sure you pissed your breeches then," Jon replied, impatience oozing from his every word. "Grey Wind wasn't even full-grown, and he would have killed you at a word from Robb. So will Ghost, if I ask him to. But who said anything about threats, Lannister? Perhaps I fancied a chat."

The blond man snorted. "Yes, the bastard King in the North is so lacking in interesting company that he comes to chat with the likes of _me_."

"Why are you here, Kingslayer? You must have known your reception would be cold up North."

Suddenly, the prisoner laughed, startling his companion into waking. "A cold reception indeed. I had to choose between fire and ice, you see, and I chose ice. Is that so strange?"

"I've heard the news of what your sister did in King's Landing," Jon acknowledged, hanging his torch from the nearest bracket. "A feat worthy of the king you slew."

"It will only get worse," Jaime confessed. "There aren't many Tyrells left, but those who survived have pledged their support to Daenerys Targaryen, who is coming to Westeros with an army and three dragons, or so say the rumors. The Dornish support her as well, and the Ironborn are split between Euron and Yara Greyjoy. There will be more fire to come."

"And you killed Daenerys Targaryen's father, so she wouldn't be pleased to see you," Jon added, shaking his head. "You're in a tight spot now, Kingslayer. You're lucky you didn't cut off my father's head, or I'd have killed you outright. The North remembers, and the man who passes the sentence swings the sword. In case you haven't heard, that's _me_ , bastard and all."

For a moment, the man regarded Jon with a strange expression in his emerald eyes. He seemed to be waiting for an accusation that never materialized, and he shrugged.

"What will it be, then? Will the _honorable_ Northmen take my head as vengeance for all the wrongs of war?"

"Do you deserve death, Ser Jaime?" asked Jon, curious to see what he'd say.

Jaime Lannister raised an eyebrow. "I thought Northmen didn't care for such questions. Your father believed my life was forfeit the second I stabbed old King Scab in the back."

"You didn't answer my question," Jon pointed out.

"Neither did you. If you're about to take a man's head, you could at least tell him. It's only polite."

Jon sighed. He had no idea what he'd expected from Jaime Lannister, but it hadn't been this level of irritation.

"I'm not my father," Jon said finally. "Look at me, Lannister."

Shivering in the cold, Jon untied his jerkin and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, exposing the ugly stab wounds that had ended his service to the Watch.

Jaime Lannister turned to look with uninterested eyes, and slowly went pale as he saw Jon's chest. Almost without thinking, the man edged closer, his mouth fallen open in shock. Next to him, the sellsword Bronn took a peek at the show and swore.

"How in the seven _hells_ are you alive?" the commoner asked, shaking. "At least two of those are fatal, or I'm a septon, and I ain't no septon."

"Stannis Baratheon came to the Wall with a Red Witch," Jon explained, buttoning his shirt once more. "When my men stabbed me to death, she brought me back. I swore to die at my post, and so I did, but my oath was _for all the nights to come_. Does that make me an oathbreaker like you, Lannister? Even I don't know. Perhaps my father would have taken my head, along with yours."

Jaime Lannister said nothing, but he regarded Jon with an odd expression of pity. Jon had seen it before, usually on Sansa's face when she caught him half-dressed and saw his scars, or when he woke screaming in the night.

He _hated_ that look.

"Why'd they do that?" asked Bronn, now immune enough to the spectacle to ask questions.

"The White Walkers are coming," Jon explained. "I saw them myself, at Hardhome. Any man they kill will rise again as a wight, so I negotiated with the Free Folk, to let them south of the Wall. The Night's Watch didn't like that; they'd much rather let the wildlings die and come back to kill us as undead monsters. I tried to save us all, and they murdered me for it."

"So you are reviled for your finest act," Jaime Lannister said, looking at him with a strange half-smile. "But _you_ managed to do it without becoming the most hated man in Westeros, or gaining a spiteful new name. If I weren't so jealous, I'd congratulate you for a job well done, though you _did_ die in the attempt. No one is perfect, I suppose."

Jon blinked in surprise. A compliment, from _this_ man? Then what he'd said sunk in.

"You consider killing Aerys Targaryen your finest act?"

The Kingslayer sighed. "You showed me your scars, so I suppose I can tell you," he said slowly. "Aerys had filled all the tunnels in King's Landing with wildfire. He meant to burn the city to the ground, and everyone in it, rather than lose it to Robert Baratheon. The same wildfire my brother used to fight Stannis Baratheon's fleet, and the same wildfire my sister used to blow up the sept. It was hiding down there for almost twenty years, and no one knew of it but me, after I killed the pyromancers and the Mad King."

Jon's jaw had fallen open during this short tale. "But—you saved the city!" he cried, not comprehending. "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"I swore to keep my king's secrets," the man replied, raising an eyebrow.

The King in the North made a wordless noise of disbelief.

"Your father wouldn't have cared," Jaime explained simply, and the bitter half-smile returned. He took a breath and went on. "In Ned Stark's eyes, I was the oathbreaking, backstabbing son of a child-killer who spent the war comfortable in his castle. Robert Baratheon was happy that I'd done the job for him, and Jon Arryn wanted to bring the Lannisters into his great rebel alliance. They asked no questions they didn't want answered."

For a moment, the King in the North and the Lion of Lannister looked at each other, sincere green eyes meeting serious gray. No one spoke.

"I told you I wasn't my father," Jon said finally. "I meant it. As much as I loved him, he was too honest and honorable for the world we live in. I've had to be more flexible to survive, and even then," he shrugged, pointing to his now-covered stab wounds, "it's not always enough."

Before Jaime Lannister or Bronn could react, Jon had unlocked their cell, and heaved the door open with a grunt of effort.

"I'll have guest rooms made up for you," he said, hardly aware of what came out of his mouth. "You're welcome to join me for supper tonight."

The two prisoners looked too stunned for words. Then, Ser Jaime Lannister gave Jon a perfectly proper bow, the bow a knight would give the southron king.

"As you wish, your grace."


	9. The Son's Song, Jaime I

**AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 2 - The Son's Song**

 **Jaime I**

King Jon was as good as his word. He'd asked a reluctant Lady Sansa to find Bronn and Jaime a room in the guest wing of the castle, though it was difficult with so many lords holding court in Winterfell. The two southrons had been happy to find a roaring fire, furs aplenty, and mulled wine in their new quarters.

"It's decent, this," said Bronn, sipping eagerly at some wine. "Not quite up to the level of a Dornish red, but not bad. It'll warm you quick enough."

Jaime wrapped a bear-pelt around his shoulders, shivering. He'd been mad when he'd decided to ride north in winter, though staying in King's Landing would have been madder. Still, he disliked the cold and always would.

"You look like a twat," the sellsword laughed. "It's not that cold, not inside the castle. You ought to sail into the Bay of Seals sometime. You'd be frozen solid _there_."

"You've been north of the Wall?" Jaime asked, surprised.

"I have," said Bronn, not looking up from his goblet.

"Well, I won't go," Jaime decided. "I may go to the Wall if it comes to that, but going any further in winter is insanity. The Northmen may have ice flowing through their veins, but I certainly don't."

"The boy isn't as cold as that," protested Bronn. "In fact, if he weren't a king, I'd say he's alright. A man that comes back from the dead is a man worth respecting, at least a little. He was stabbed _in the heart_ and lived to tell the tale," he finished, and the usually unflappable sellsword sounded a little impressed.

Jaime snorted. "He may be the king now, but he's only the bastard brother of the last King in the North. Apparently Northmen will forgive bastardy if the boy looks like his father."

Bronn shot Jaime an unimpressed look over his wine. "And southrons will forgive bastardy if even if they don't."

That was a low blow, and Bronn knew it. He went on, unflinching at Jaime's glare.

"I may like you and the little lord, but I remember your King Joffrey well enough. He was a cunt and a bastard, both. I can't see King Jon ordering his men to beat a girl when his grandfather loses a battle."

"His grandfather was cooked alive in his armor, but you've made your point," grumbled Jaime. "Jon Snow is a paragon among bastards, I'm sure. I'm going to nap for an hour or two. Wake me when it's time to eat."

And curling up on his comfortable guest bed, Jaime Lannister closed his eyes and slept. He didn't quite get his two hour nap, however, because another group of riders arrived. They clattered into the Winterfell courtyard below his window, and the Northmen were happier to see them than they'd been to see the Lannister men. Curious, Jaime and Bronn looked out of the small windows and saw a group of leather-clad riders, small in stature, riding in under a grey-green banner.

"Is that a lizard-lion?" asked Bronn, squinting at it.

"It is," replied Jaime. He couldn't remember which house owned the sigil, though he knew the lizard-lion was a creature of the Neck, a swamp-dweller. "Looks like the crannogmen are here to visit their king. They're taller than I thought they'd be."

"Maybe they brought frogs for supper," the sellsword said. Jaime hoped he was joking. "I've had frog soup before. It's not bad in a pinch."

Jaime couldn't help the noise of disgust that escaped his mouth. For all his trials and travels, he'd been raised at Casterly Rock. Not even as a prisoner of war had he eaten frogs.

"I'm sure they're delicious," he told Bronn, shaking his head. "I think I'll have a bath before we dine. Winterfell has some lovely hot springs, you know."

"Go on, get yourself all prettied up for supper with the King in the North," Bronn replied, still peering out the window.

Jaime left, scoffing at his companion. He spent a long time scrubbing the dirt of the road and the salt of the sea from his skin and hair, letting his mind wander to anything but Cersei. Remembering his bath with Brienne, he made a note to speak to her later, and see how she fared among the Northmen. With her naive, honorable nature, she should have fit right in. The North had at least one family of women warriors, so she wouldn't be the odd duck she was back home in the Stormlands.

Once his fingers had wrinkled from the hot water, Jaime stepped out of his bath and dressed in a red doublet, the warmest he owned. He felt naked without armor, but he knew the Northmen would do him no harm, not now that they'd given him bread and salt. With a pang, he remembered how his father had stomped all over _that_ tradition, and hoped they wouldn't see Tywin when they looked at him. He hadn't come all this way to be butchered while on the privy.

The King in the North was already seated when Jaime entered, chatting quietly with his sister and the lord of the crannogmen, now seated at the high table with the other northern lords. When they saw him, the king gestured for Jaime to sit across from him. The others at the table looked surprised and wary, except for Sansa Stark. Clearly, Jon Snow had spoken with her of his visit to Jaime's cell.

"Lord Howland, this is Ser Jaime Lannister," Jon Snow introduced. "He says he's come to help us against the White Walkers. Ser Jaime, this is Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch."

Jaime finally got a good look at the man, and remembered him. He'd seen him in King's Landing, long ago, before his hair had gone gray and his eyes had gained that look of endless grief.

"I remember you," Jaime said. "You came to the Red Keep. You stood vigil over the girl's bones."

Lord Reed nodded. "I did," he answered. "It was my honor to guard the Lady Lyanna on her final journey."

"You were holding a babe," Jaime recalled, sitting next to Lord Reed, then realized the babe was now the king sitting across from him. Jon Snow caught the look.

"Me?"

"Yes," Lord Reed answered, smiling sadly. "Ned and I rode to Dorne with five others to rescue Lyanna, and failed—but Ned and I carried you home when we brought her bones to rest here in the crypts. That was after the siege of Storm's End," he trailed off, lost in his memories.

The servants entered then, setting down hearty northern food to stave off the cold. Twisting in his seat, Jaime caught a glimpse of Bronn, chatting away with a group of wildlings. He looked strangely comfortable with them. Perhaps he had truly gone north of the Wall before.

"Does that mean you met my mother, Lord Howland?" asked the king, so quietly that Jaime almost missed it.

"Of course I met her, long before you were born," Lord Reed replied, bewildered. Looking at the bastard's face, his jaw dropped. "Ned never told you about her? He said he would, once you were grown."

Jon Snow shook his head, and Sansa gave him a sympathetic smile. "I don't even know her name, or if she's alive or dead. He always said he'd tell me when I was older, but he went south with Robert Baratheon and I never saw him again. I always thought he was too ashamed to say anything in Lady Catelyn's presence," he finished, looking down at his plate.

"Your grace," said Howland Reed gently, "Ned loved you dearly, as did your mother. It was never shame that kept him quiet—it was fear."

"Fear?" asked Lady Sansa incredulously, and Jaime saw several northern lords look at Howland Reed with renewed interest. "Of what?"

"We ought to discuss this in private, Princess," replied the crannogman, "but your father feared that if King Jon's parentage were known, certain people would wish him dead, even as a babe. He promised her he'd keep you safe, and that meant hiding your true identity."

Jaime was terribly curious, but he knew they would say no more in his presence. He decided to diffuse the tension with a jape.

"I always thought Ned had bedded Ashara Dayne," he said airily. "We all saw them dancing and laughing together at the Harrenhal tourney, and Ned Stark did not dance and laugh with just anyone. Can't fault his taste—she was the prettiest lady at court, if you liked that violet-eyed look."

Lord Reed shook his head. "Ashara Dayne danced with him as a favor to Brandon Stark, Ser Lannister, but no more. Ned was a bit shy then, always compared unfavorably to his older brother."

"Poor Father," sighed Sansa.

"I will speak with you both tomorrow morning, if it please your grace," offered the crannogman. "It is time you knew who you are, and the consequences will be greater than you know."

Jaime raised an eyebrow, and pretended he wasn't listening as he speared a piece of venison. It had not escaped him that his meat had arrived already cut. He supposed Lady Brienne might have spoken out, or perhaps Lady Sansa, and he was quietly grateful for it.

"Gods, that sounds ominous," Jon Snow replied, startled. "Am I the son of a Skagosi spearwife, or mayhaps a pirate queen?"

"I doubt that very much, your grace," Davos Seaworth spoke up, grinning. "You don't smell of the sea, and an old smuggler would know."

"She can't have been a common fishwife or whore," the King in the North realized, watching Lord Reed's face for confirmation. "If she'd been some lowborn tavern wench, no one would care enough to want me dead."

Lady Sansa scoffed at that. "Tell that to Janos Slynt! He had all of King Robert's bastards in King's Landing rounded up and killed, even the sons of whores and tavern wenches. Even the babes."

There was an uncomfortable silence, and Jaime caught a few glares aimed in his direction.

"I can't tell him anything. I cut off his head at the Wall," the king said finally.

"You did?" asked Sansa, looking at her brother with a sudden smile.

"On the Wall, if you don't follow your commanding officer's orders, you die. He thought he needn't follow his Lord Commander's orders if he didn't like me. I taught him how the North handles such men."

"He deserved it," Jaime said, toasting the king ironically. "Slynt was a coward and a fool."

"He also failed at his task," Ser Davos spoke up. "One of Robert Baratheon's older bastards made it out of the city and all the way to Dragonstone, an armorer's apprentice by the name of Gendry. He looks just like Lord Renly did when he was younger."

"Why did he go to Dragonstone?" asked Lady Sansa, turning her head quizzically.

"I only heard parts of the story," Davos admitted, "but he said Jon Arryn and Lord Stark both came to the shop to see him. Clearly, they knew whose son he was," he went on. "After Lord Stark's visit, Gendry said his master shipped him north with a group of criminals headed for the Wall. Without any explanation, he said, Master Mott told him to pack his things and go, quickly."

"Father was protecting him," King Jon realized, frowning in thought. "At the Wall, no one would care that he was a king's bastard with a king's face. If a Targaryen prince could hide at the Wall all these years, why not a Baratheon bastard?"

Jaime saw Howland Reed look at his king rather strangely, but the Onion Knight nodded. "I suspected as much, your grace. But the gold cloaks followed and slew the wandering crow that led them. The group scattered after that. Gendry joined the Brotherhood Without Banners, along with a filthy, small orphan boy with a skinny sword, who was in fact, a highborn lady from Winterfell."

The entire table froze, except for Ser Davos, who looked rather calm after dropping _that_ bit of news.

"Arya!" cried the King in the North. "Arya made it out of King's Landing?"

"To the Riverlands," Lady Sansa realized, covering her mouth in sudden horror. "The war-torn Riverlands, with Gregor Clegane running wild."

The king's Hand nodded soberly. "Gendry says the Brotherhood meant to ransom her to King Robb, but they never had the chance."

"Well, they certainly didn't mention _that_ when they came last month!" Jon Snow exploded, sounding furious. "They kept our sister hostage, Sansa! I've half a mind to ride to Castle Black and take their heads!"

Ser Davos shook his head. "Beric Dondarrion was a decent man, once. But that priest—he's turned them all into fanatics of the Red God. They sold Gendry to the Red Woman, and she meant to sacrifice him for his king's blood. That is how he came to Dragonstone. I've no idea what happened to Princess Arya after Gendry last saw her."

"Ser Jaime?" asked Jon Snow. "Would you tell us true, if the Lannisters ever found Arya?"

"We did not," Jaime answered immediately. "She disappeared after your father's execution, and we knew nothing after that. I thought she'd perished in some Fleabottom gutter, but clearly she's made of stronger stuff. Your father hired a bravo to teach her sword-fighting, now that I think on it."

Lady Sansa's mouth had fallen open in a very unladylike way. "Sword-fighting! She called it dancing lessons with Master Syrio!"

The King in the North laughed, and Jaime saw the Mormont girl's mouth twitch upwards. "That does sound like our Arya."

"Your grace," said Brienne of Tarth quietly. "I searched for Princess Arya and Princess Sansa for some time, as you know. I heard rumors of both girls, and the latest of Princess Arya was that she'd escaped the Hound and made her way to Saltpans."

"She must be alive," Jon Snow said firmly, clutching his sister's hand. His gray eyes shone with renewed hope. "If she could survive all of that without any help from Northmen, she must live yet."

"And the news have spread," Jaime added, "that there is a new King in the North, and the Stark direwolf flies over Winterfell. If your sister lives, she will return home at last."

"You're the last person in the world I expected to tell me good news, Lannister," the king said, raising his goblet. "But I thank you all the same, and you as well, Ser Davos. To Princess Arya," he toasted. "May the gods—and her sword—bring her safely home."

"To Princess Arya," chorused the hall.

"And if we ever see the Hound again," he added, quieter, "he will tell us what he did with Arya, or I'll burn the _other_ half of his face off."

"I don't think he'd hurt her," Lady Sansa said quietly. "He _did_ warn us of Littlefinger's treachery, and he was mostly kind to me in the capital. Still," she admitted, "it was a very important piece of information to withhold."

For a while after the toast, there was little sound except the metallic clinking of cutlery against plates, and a low hum of conversation from the low tables. The northern council seemed lost in thought. Jaime, now comfortably full, looked around the room. There was a shocking lack of guards, a strange oversight when the Starks had ruled as Kings in the North for millenia.

"Your grace, do you not have a Kingsguard?"

Jon Snow looked up in surprise. "I'm at home, surrounded by Northmen."

"Even so, you should have guards, and food testers. My sister might try to poison you one of these days, and Varys went missing. He has spies and assassins everywhere. A king cannot afford to trust without reservation."

"He's right, Jon," Sansa murmured, looking worried.

"Northmen are loyal," the boy argued, watching his council out of the corner of his eye. Jaime saw the fat lord of White Harbor squirming.

"And some are not. Remember the Boltons," his sister reminded him.

"And the Karstarks," Lord Glover added, shaking his head.

"And the Greystarks," Lord Reed pointed out quietly.

"If I have guards following me, it will send the message that I don't trust our people," objected the bastard king.

"Our people would understand, your grace," said a little girl wearing the Mormont bear. "After what happened to King Robb, we want you and Princess Sansa safe."

The King in the North sighed. "Very well, I will appoint some guards. But it will not be a lifetime appointment. Our guards will be free to leave if they wish, and start families."

"Your grace," Brienne of Tarth spoke up, her voice slightly too loud. "I offer you my sword. Let me serve you and Princess Sansa as a guard."

Jaime fought a snort. Of course the wench would be the first to volunteer!

"I thank you, Lady Brienne, and we are honored," the king answered. Sansa beamed at the taller woman.

The king stood, and the chatter at the low tables died as bannermen and wildlings, commoners and lords, turned to look at their chosen monarch.

"It has been brought to my attention," King Jon began, "that I need a Kingsguard to protect myself and my family. Unlike the southron kings, I have no desire to keep a man from his family forever; you may serve as long as you are able to do so, and leave when you wish to. I will not bind a man—or woman—to guard me for life. Lady Brienne, please," he gestured.

Brienne knelt at the king's feet. She was ridiculously tall even while kneeling, but no one laughed. For once, the wench knelt in a room of strangers as earnest as herself.

"Lady Brienne of Tarth has been as faithful as any knight, though she is not of the North and owed us nothing. She found Princess Sansa in the Wolfswood and brought her to the safety of Castle Black, where she guarded my sister faithfully from the rapers and thieves of the Watch. She has asked to serve the Stark family as a guard, and I am happy to accept."

The king turned, and his sister caught the look and walked to his side. Jaime suspected she'd be whispering knightly vows in his ear, but in the end, it was the bastard king who invented his own. Lady Sansa simply squeezed the king's left hand, and smiled down at Brienne.

"Lady Brienne, will you swear to defend the King in the North and the House of Stark from all enemies, by the old gods and the new, for as long as your service shall last?" asked Jon Snow.

"I will, your grace," she answered, blue eyes glittering in the candlelight.

"Will you guard the secrets of House Stark, act with honor and speak with honesty?"

"I will, your grace."

"Then I, Jon Snow, King in the North, swear by the old gods and the new that you shall have a place at our table, and no Stark shall ask service of you that might bring you into dishonor. When you wish it, you shall be released from your service with thanks, and may return to your family by the grace of the gods. Arise the first member of the renewed Wintersguard, protectors of the King in the North and his family, the Starks of Winterfell."

There was a smattering of applause from the lords, but the wildlings hollered madly, especially a wild-eyed fellow with a bright red beard. Jaime disliked him on sight. Brienne rose, her cheeks pink with embarrassment, and walked away with a glimmer of pride in her beautiful eyes.

"Your grace," called one of the crannogmen. "I would be honored to serve."

The tiny man dressed in greens and browns knelt at Jon Snow's feet.

"We accept your offer, Dorren of House Blackmyre."

The king then had Dorren Blackmyre swear the same vow Brienne had made, though there was no mention of the new gods. The crannogman rose, and moved to the wall with Brienne, looking comically small next to the lady.

"I've saved your kingly arse too many times to lose ye now, King Crow," the redheaded wildling called out, and the king and Lady Sansa laughed. "I won't kneel to ye or the lady, but I'll keep ye safe."

Jaime tried not to imagine what Joffrey would have done with such a pledge.

"We are honored, Tormund Giantsbane," Jon Snow told the wildling, before hugging him as a brother-in-arms might. For a moment, his solemn, Stark-like face broke into a smile. "Welcome to the Wintersguard."

On it went, with mountain clansmen, wildlings, and northern lords swearing to defend the King in the North and any surviving Starks. The wildlings did so standing, and the Northmen were proud to kneel at the feet of Ned Stark's lookalike. After the seventh Wintersguard, a boy-faced Norrey clansman, three more had stood up, stretching the Wintersguard to ten members. Jon Snow finally stopped at twelve.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm," he told his people, "but surely, with six guards for myself and six for Sansa, we should stay out of trouble from now on. Even when Arya comes home we'll have four guards each, and a direwolf. We'll be quite safe."

"I doubt that!" snorted the wildling guard Suregg. Everyone laughed at this, even the lords.

"I suppose we ought to have some livery for you," the king mused. "Sansa?"

"I'll have something made up. Leathers, no white cloaks," she added, glaring at Tormund Giantsbane as he made a face. "You needn't worry I'll dress you in yellow silks, Tormund."

"No pink, neither!" hollered a spearwife.

"No pink," the King in the North promised. "That's a Bolton color, or it was. There is no such thing as House Bolton anymore."

A mighty cheer went up at this. Lady Sansa, widow of the last Bolton, did not cheer, but a small, slightly crooked smile appeared on her fair face.

"You needn't stick to your dull house colors, you know," Jaime japed, once the king and princess had taken their seats once more. "Renly had a Rainbow Guard instead of a Kingsguard. Brienne there was the Blue, but there was Robar the Red, and Bryce the Orange, Guyard the Green, and so on."

The King in the North wrinkled his nose in distaste. For a moment, Jaime was reminded of a five-year-old Viserys Targaryen, making that same gesture when forced to eat vegetables he disliked.

"There's nothing wrong with simple gray and white, Ser Jaime," Lady Sansa said, gently but firmly. "Lord Renly's usual outfits would have fed a Northern family for a month, at least. Jon is not that sort of king."

There was little Jaime could say to contradict that, so he said nothing. He spent the rest of the meal silent, observing the King in the North and his council. Never had he seen a king so comfortable with smallfolk and lords, wildlings and Vale knights. Robert hadn't cared, and Aerys and Joffrey had disdained anyone who wasn't of their blood. Jon Snow listened carefully to what his people had to say, and it showed. Jaime was sure these gruff Northmen would die for him if he asked.

Jaime revised his previous thought. He _had_ seen a royal behave this way, but he'd never been king. Rhaegar Targaryen had waded unafraid into the streets of King's Landing, dressed in plain clothes and carrying his harp. He'd wandered through the city, disguised, and talked to anyone he could, from the gutter rats of Fleabottom to the merchants and whores.

Jaime was lost in melancholy for a time, as he always was when he remembered the Silver Prince. The chatter around him went on, growing louder as the Northmen became more and more drunk.

Once they'd finished dinner, an increasingly merry King Jon had called for music, with a group of crannogmen happily obliging. It was fascinating to watch. Jaime had never seen dour old Eddard Stark drunk, but his son seemed to have indulged more than usual tonight. Was it worry over Howland Reed's news? Joy at the creation of the Wintersguard? Stress at Jaime's own presence here? He didn't know, but he enjoyed seeing the uptight bastard loosening up.

An hour later, Jon Snow was drunk enough to sing. The crannogmen struck up an old tune, a sad northern one about a girl named Danny Flint, and Jon Snow hummed along, then sang. Even his sister looked surprised. His voice was rather good, though the strong northern accent was jarring to Jaime's southron ears.

When the musicians started playing Alysanne, a chill went down Jaime's back. King Jon sang, his voice smooth and sad, and Jaime knew he'd heard this voice, singing this very song, long ago. Now confused, he gulped down some more ale, and kept listening. Lady Sansa, seated next to her brother, sang along, a tear falling down one cheek.

They sang a few other northern songs that Jaime didn't know, and then began The Mermaid's Lament. After downing another ale, King Jon's voice was strong and confident, and Jaime was frozen in his seat, trying to remember. He'd never heard the Bastard of Winterfell singing before, but _he knew his voice_. The hairs on the back of Jaime's neck prickled.

 _Your father feared that if King Jon's parentage were known, certain people would wish him dead, even as a babe,_ the crannogman had said.

Who would kill a babe? His father, for one, but Tywin had had Rhaenys and Aegon Targaryen killed, not the motherless bastard of the Warden of the North. Joffrey had killed babes as well, but they'd been the bastards of King Robert, while Jon Snow was not. Unless...

Jaime remembered Howland Reed holding the baby Jon Snow in his arms as he watched over Lyanna Stark's bones. Rhaegar had raped her, they'd said. Raped her and locked her in a tower to die of fever. But Rhaegar Targaryen was not Aerys; he was no rapist, Jaime was sure of it.

A dark-haired babe with gray eyes. Eddard Stark's eyes. Rhaegar Targaryen's voice!

Thunderstruck, Jaime realized how he knew the king's voice. It was the voice of the long-dead Targaryen prince, the eternally melancholy singer who should have been king.

 _Why would Ned Stark's bastard have Rhaegar Targaryen's voice?_ _Because he wasn't Ned's, of course!_

Ned Stark and Howland Reed had gone to Dorne to find Lady Lyanna. They'd found her. They'd found her newborn son, the last living child of Rhaegar Targaryen. And they'd hidden him from Robert Baratheon, and any other that might have killed him.

 _...Certain people would wish him dead, even as a babe..._

Robert Baratheon would have slaughtered anyone who claimed his precious Lyanna had gone with Rhaegar willingly, and Aegon with his crushed skull would have been a pretty picture next to his half-brother.

The room was fading. Around him, the singing and drinking went on, but Jaime could no longer see or hear it. He could see Rhaegar Targaryen's face swimming next to his son's, his indigo eyes accusing.

 _I left my wife and children in your hands_ _,_ he said.

 _And you left your lover and third child in Arthur Dayne's hands_ , Jaime thought bitterly. _Dayne, Hightower, and Whent guarded one pregnant woman in the middle of Dorne. I had to deal with mad Aerys, and guard him, Elia, Rhaenys, Aegon, and all of King's Landing by myself._

Jaime staggered to his feet. Before he collapsed, a strong pair of arms guided him out of the hall. Immediately, he recognized his savior as Brienne.

"You're meant to guard the king, not his guests," he chided.

"I'm not guarding you," she replied. "I'm keeping you upright so you don't vomit all over the clean floor."

Jaime laughed, and let her half-carry him to his rooms.

"Was it your idea, the Wintersguard?"

"Yes," replied Jaime. "I've never seen a king go without guards. I suppose a man that has already died doesn't fear death, but still. It would be a shame for Sansa to lose her last brother to stupidity."

"I agree," murmured Brienne.

They'd reached his bedchamber. Brienne poured Jaime some water, forced him to drink it, and then left, telling him to get some sleep.

Jaime fell onto his bed. In his dreams, he heard male voices singing. One singer was a silver-blond, with indigo eyes too old for his face. He played a silver harp with expert hands, and the song was sad.

The other singer had dark hair and the face of a Stark. The same voice poured out of his mouth, but the King in the North held no harp; in his hands he held a Valyrian steel sword.


	10. The Son's Song, Jon V

**AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 2 - The Son's Song**

 **Jon V**

The next morning, Jon woke with a mild but irritating headache. He knew he'd had too much ale, but thinking of Arya roaming the Riverlands alone had worried him more than he could say. It was better than being dead, of course, but at least the dead needn't worry about bandits, rapers, starvation, exposure, and any other dangers of the road.

Before he could go too deep into his disturbing thoughts, Sansa knocked gently on his door and let herself in.

"Brooding again, Jon?" she asked, giving him a smile.

She sat next to him on the edge of the bed, and nudged his bare shoulder with hers. After all the time they'd spent together, she no longer flinched at the sight of his stab wounds. She also knew when to speak, and when to leave him to his thoughts. Their recent trials had brought them closer than a shared childhood ever had.

"Just thinking," Jon answered, running a hand through his hair. "I'm afraid of what Lord Reed will tell me. Why would anyone want to kill Ned Stark's bastard? The Tullys were certainly offended by my existence," he said quietly, making Sansa frown. "But they wouldn't care about my mother's identity, would they? And they never tried to kill me."

"I don't know, Jon," Sansa murmured. "But whatever he says won't change a thing. You're the King in the North and a Stark of Winterfell. The North knows you're as honorable as Father, and they will follow you."

"You know I never wanted this," the king said painfully. "I'd give up the crown in a second if it brought Robb back to us, and if you want to be queen, you need only say so."

"That is why it must be you," his sister answered, kissing him on the cheek. "Haven't you noticed that people who _want_ power are usually terrible rulers?"

She stood, dusting an invisible speck of dirt off her blue dress. "Come, Jon. Get dressed, and we'll face Howland Reed together."

Jon obeyed, pulling on the clothes she handed him. He knew better than to show up to his council room in his old Night's Watch leathers, but Sansa considered every article of clothing carefully before giving it to him. She knew when to dress him like a northern lord, and when to make him a King of Winter. Every stitch was hers, of course, and she beamed with pride when Jon stepped out wearing the sigil she'd created for him, a crowned white direwolf with red eyes.

The Hall was quiet, with many already at their duties. Most of the council sat at the high table, and Jaime Lannister peered at Jon with bleary eyes. There was an odd, calculating gleam in his green gaze, but he said nothing beyond a simple good morning.

Jon ate lightly. There was a knot of tension in his stomach that he couldn't shake, despite Sansa's kindness. Lord Howland was not in the hall; Lord Manderly informed Jon that the smaller man was in the godswood, and would join him in his solar as soon as the king had finished his breakfast.

All too soon, Jon and Sansa sat in Ned Stark's solar, watching the snow falling outside the window as Lord Reed entered. The crannogman's cheeks were pink with cold, making him look younger than his years. He carried an old wooden box, finely carved with racing direwolves. To Jon's untrained eye, it looked like the hope chest that had once held Arya's sorry attempts at embroidery.

"Your grace," he said, bowing after he'd shut the door. "I thank you for seeing me."

"Have a seat, Lord Reed," Jon replied. "You have the answer to a question that has haunted me for years, though I'm afraid to hear it."

The crannogman smiled, easing himself into a chair. "It is understandable, your grace. I never believed Ned would keep your origins hidden for so long, at least not among us Northmen. But he saw things in King's Landing that scared him. They scared both of us, and risking your safety was not a chance he was willing to take."

Lord Reed tapped the lid of the box absently, a rhythm Jon recognized from the night before.

"There is no easy way to say this," the man said at last. "But you have been deceived about your parents, your grace. They are not what history makes of them. I must start before your birth, however. What do you know of the Tourney at Harrenhal?"

Sansa blinked in surprise. Jon was no less shocked, though now that he thought of it, he'd heard vague rumors about Father and a beautiful lady at a tourney. Ashara Dayne, according to Jaime Lannister's comments from last night.

"Father, Uncle Brandon, Uncle Benjen, and Aunt Lyanna went to the tourney," Sansa answered finally. "She was already betrothed to Robert Baratheon, and Uncle Brandon was betrothed to Mother. Rhaegar Targaryen won the joust, and crowned Aunt Lyanna Queen of Love and Beauty."

Lord Howland looked disappointed. "Is that all?"

"Father never spoke much of those days," Jon told him.

The crannogman shook his head. "I was nearby and fell into a spot of bother," he related. "A group of squires thought it would be funny to beat on a crannogman, small as I am. A beautiful young woman broke into the clearing and scared them away, waving a sword and screaming that I was her father's bannerman and under his protection. She introduced herself as Lyanna Stark."

"Father always said Arya was like Aunt Lyanna," Sansa murmured, making Jon smile.

"She was kinder to me than anyone I've met outside the Neck," Lord Reed continued, smiling sadly. "She helped me stand, and took me to the Stark tents, where I met my liege lord's children. They sent for a maester, fed me, bandaged me, and cheered me up. I was invited to the feast as their guest, wearing borrowed Stark garments."

He paused for breath, and Jon and Sansa looked at each other curiously. Jon could tell that Sansa was just as confused about the relevance of the tourney, but they did not interrupt.

"Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was there, of course. There were rumors that the tourney was a front, and that the Silver Prince intended to dethrone his mad father and take his place, using the tourney to gather allies and make secret plans. I know naught of that, but I heard him perform that night. He sang, and played his harp, and all the maidens in the room wept, even Lyanna."

"During the joust, a small knight appeared, with a laughing weirwood on his shield. His armor was mismatched and fitted him ill, and he never showed his face. When he unseated the squires that had come upon me, he asked only that their knight-masters teach them honor."

"Uncle Benjen?" asked Jon, not sure how this related to his parentage. "He was only a boy at the time."

Lord Reed shook his head. "It was Lady Lyanna, of course. She'd always been an excellent horsewoman, and she was skilled enough with the lance to unhorse some overconfident squires. She meant for me to avenge the honor of House Reed, but I'm no knight. She rode as my champion instead."

Jon smiled. "She really was like Arya, then."

"What happened then?" asked Sansa. Though she no longer believed in fairy tales, there was a sparkle in her eyes that Jon hadn't seen in some time.

"The king commanded the mysterious knight to remove his helm, but he would not. Lyanna had never intended to make a spectacle of herself, only to teach those boys a lesson. Only Benjen and I knew it was she at the time, and the last thing Lya wanted was to draw Aerys' attention to House Stark. So she disobeyed the king and rode away."

Jon winced. Running away from the Mad King? Had his Aunt Lyanna been mad, or was it what Father had called the wolf blood?

"Aerys was incensed. He ordered his knights and his son to hunt the knight down and bring him to the king, where I'm sure a pyromancer or three would have been waiting. They found only the weirwood shield, abandoned under a tree. But there was one who saw the mystery knight's face, and it was none other than Prince Rhaegar."

Jon's stomach dropped to the floor. "That was how he caught her?"

"You mistake me," Lord Reed said quickly, seeing the dark look on Jon's face. "He did not threaten her or harm her in any way. Lady Lyanna said he was impressed and touched by her loyalty to me, and he reassured her that he would not give her away to his father. Rhaegar knew better than most what awaited those who displeased Aerys. She returned to her tent quite relieved, and more than a bit smitten."

"He was a married man!" cried Sansa, aghast. "How could she be smitten?"

"The heart wants what it wants," the crannogman told her, apologetic. "Lyanna was betrothed to a man who spent the tourney chasing servant girls and drinking himself stupid, except when fighting in the melee. Prince Rhaegar was handsome, educated, and an impressive tourney knight, though he had a political marriage to a sickly, if gentle, lady that he had not chosen. Is it so strange that he would admire a woman like Lyanna, or that she would admire him in return?"

"It's no excuse to steal her away from her family!" Jon protested.

"There was no stealing, your grace," Lord Reed explained patiently. "They met in secret, in the woods, many times until the tourney broke up and the court returned to King's Landing. Lady Lyanna was in love, and I believe Prince Rhaegar was, too. I needn't remind you that the lady was handy with a sword; had anyone tried to steal her, she would have given him quite the scratch!"

"So she ran away with Prince Rhaegar?" Jon's sister asked, sounding more than a bit skeptical. "With no note, nothing to tell her family what had happened?"

"There was a note," Howland Reed said. "Lyanna was traveling to Riverrun with Brandon, for his wedding to Catelyn Tully. She sent a raven to Winterfell before she disappeared. Benjen Stark received it, and he raised the alarm."

The crannogman sighed. "Ned suspected that Lord Rickard had used the word _abduction_ deliberately, to protect Lyanna's reputation, but he died before anyone could ask him. In the madness that followed that raven, an elopement became a kidnapping, and Brandon rode south in a rage. Robert Baratheon believed what he wished to believe; his betrothed was gone, and Rhaegar with her. It was enough to condemn the son of a madman as a madman in turn. Once King Aerys had murdered your grandfather, war was inevitable. After all, if a Lord Paramount could get no justice, who could?"

While Jon and Sansa absorbed this unpleasant story, Lord Reed reached into the box he'd brought, pulling out a folded black garment with a golden band at the hem.

"You are no bastard, your grace. This is the wedding cloak your father gave your mother," he said, unfolding what turned out to be a cloak: a _black_ wedding cloak, with a scarlet, three-headed dragon studded with gems. It was a cloak meant for a princess.

Jon had gone numb. He could hear nothing, see nothing except the hateful cloak. He'd listened to Lord Reed's tale curiously and a bit impatiently, wondering what in the seven hells it had to do with him. The answer was too simple, too _awful_ to accept.

The King in the North sank into his chair, breathless.

"They married on the Isle of Faces, in the sight of the weirwoods and the green men," the crannogman told them. "The Faith would never have allowed it, but they weren't to know. Prince Rhaegar was sure that a war was coming, a war that would decide the fate of the world, and his children would have much to do in fighting it. He wanted a child of ice and fire—a prince or princess of Stark and Targaryen blood."

"Jon," breathed Sansa, looking at him with wide blue eyes.

Jon hated it. This morning he'd been her last brother, a Stark at heart if not in name. Now she looked at him as though he were a knight from a song, and a stranger.

"Don't look at me like that, Sansa, please," he begged. "You said I'd be a Stark of Winterfell no matter what, remember?"

"You are Lyanna Stark's son, your grace, just as you are the heir of House Targaryen" Lord Reed said gently. "She was young, and without a maester or a trained midwife to help her; Ned and I came upon her as she lay dying in her bed. Your half-brother and sister were already dead, and Lyanna knew you would meet the same fate if Robert Baratheon knew of your existence. _This_ is why Ned hid you as his bastard. He loved you, and he would not allow the new king to kill you."

Jon's head sank into his shaking hands. All his life, he'd wanted to know his mother's name. It seemed like the wish of a stupid summer child now. He'd give _anything_ , anything at all, to be Ned Stark's motherless bastard again. His eyes burned, but he could not even weep.

"From the Tower of Joy where you were born, we brought Lyanna's bones, Arthur Dayne's sword, and this box," Howland Reed said, interrupting Jon's thoughts. "In it, you will find letters your father and mother wrote, and your father's harp. Lyanna's maidencloak is in here, as well."

Jon dared not touch any of it, but Sansa reached for one of the faded letters. She unfolded it to reveal Prince Rhaegar's elegant, bold handwriting, and read,

 ** _Dear Uncle_ _,_ **

**_I_ _am deeply indebted to you for the book you recommended. I have reviewed the chapters you specified and am in full agreement. The survival of House Targaryen is indeed related to this prophecy, and I am working on fulfilling it at this very moment._ **

**_I am pleased to announce that my new wife, Princess Lyanna, is carrying a child of Targaryen and Stark blood. I have been summoned to lead the King's armies against the rebels, but Lyanna will remain in Dorne, protected by three of the Kingsguard. Should the war end soon, I will take her to Dragonstone for the duration of her confinement, and announce our marriage to the court. The Martells will be displeased, but this is the only way to guarantee the survival of our kingdom, and it is Aegon, a half-Martell, who will rule after me in any case._ **

**_I suspect that this child will be a girl, the Visenya to counsel and fight alongside my Aegon and Rhaenys. There is power in the blood of the First Men, and the babe will have it along with the blood of Valyria. Should the babe be a boy, however, I mean to name him Aemon Targaryen in your honor. The name of the Dragonknight and the wise maester seem fitting for a child who may become Aegon's Hand or Lord Commander in due time._ **

**_Thank you for your council and regular correspondence during these troubling times, uncle. When the rebellion is ended, and Lyanna has recovered from her delivery, it is my fondest wish to travel north, so she may visit Winterfell, and I may speak with you in person._ **

**_Sincerely,_ **

**_Rhaegar_ **

**_Prince of Dragonstone_**

"It's addressed to Maester Aemon at Castle Black," Sansa finished, "but it was never sent."

"Aemon," Jon murmured, fighting the urge to scream. "My name is Aemon Targaryen?"

He almost missed Lord Reed's answering nod. All these years, he thought bitterly, he'd been with his uncle at the Wall, and he'd never known. Maester Aemon had believed himself and Daenerys the last of their line, when all that time, he'd had his namesake—his brother's great-great-grandson—within a stone's throw of his library.

 _A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing_ , the maester had told Sam once.

"Jon," called Sansa, squeezing his shoulder. "Jon, are you well?"

"No," he replied hoarsely. Then he remembered sending Maester Aemon and Dalla's babe away from the Wall, to protect them from Melisandre and her thirst for king's blood, and laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. The sound of it was harsh, too loud for the quiet solar, but Jon couldn't stop. He ought to have sent _himself_ away from the Red Woman! Then he would have stayed dead, and he'd never have known the truth of his birth.

"Jon!" cried his sister in alarm. But of course, she was not his sister. She never had been.

"Cousin Sansa," Jon said, a caustic smile touching his lips.

She flinched.

"Jon, you are still Father's son. _He_ is the one who raised you, not Rhaegar Targaryen. He is the one who taught you to be what you are."

"There is this, as well," Lord Reed said, pulling a document out of his pocket. It was nowhere near as faded as the letters inside the box, and Jon saw a gray wax seal with a direwolf on the outside.

"Before the Boltons and Freys murdered King Robb, he wrote a will, and sent Maege Mormont and Galbart Glover to find me. They brought a copy of the king's last will. I think you should read it, your grace, and know that the crown belongs to you."

With trembling hands, Jon took the will. His eyes prickled as he recognized Robb's spiky handwriting. He skimmed the will until he found the relevant paragraphs, and read,

 ** _I hereby legitimize my brother_ _,_ _Jon Snow_ _,_ _and request that he be released from his vows to the Night_ _'_ _s Watch. In exchange for this boon_ _,_ _three hundred Northmen are to take the black_ _,_ _and more will ride to the Watch_ _'_ _s aid at need_ _,_ _as soon as the war against the South ends and we ride home. Should I die with no heirs of my body_ _,_ _Prince Jon Stark must be my successor_ _,_ _and lead the North_ _'_ _s armies to victory over the Lannisters._ **

**_With Brandon and Rickon dead_ _,_ _Jon is my last living brother_ _,_ _and I could not find a more worthy heir in the whole of the North. Jon is Eddard Stark_ _'_ _s son_ _,_ _dutiful and honorable_ _,_ _and the blood of the Kings of Winter flows true in his veins. Princess Arya Stark_ _,_ _should she be found alive_ _,_ _will be his heir until Jon has children of his own. Though it pains me to do so_ _,_ _I hereby disinherit my sister Sansa Lannister. I fear she will outlive her usefulness to the enemy as soon as she has borne a child_ _,_ _and Winterfell must never fall into Lannister hands._**

Sansa's cheeks were tearstained, her eyes closed in grief. Seeing this, Jon raised himself out of his chair and engulfed his sister-turned-cousin in a hug, not realizing that he was weeping too.

Howland Reed allowed them a moment. He stayed in his seat, looking out the window in silence, until the two Starks had composed themselves.

"We must show this to the council, Jon," Sansa advised, sitting in her chair once more. "If there are any who doubted you would suit as king, Robb's word will help."

"Are you mad? Robb thought I was his brother!" cried Jon. "He made me his heir based on a _lie_ , the lie Fath—Eddard Stark told to keep me out of sight!"

"You are still a Stark," Sansa insisted. "I'm not the first Stark woman to be passed over in favor of a male cousin. And more importantly, the lords chose you to be king. You _can't_ throw that back in their faces!"

"Sansa, they think Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped and raped my mother," Jon argued. "When they know the truth, why would any of them want me on the throne? I must give it up, or they'll kill me. You know what they say of bastards born of rape, and Ramsay Bolton proved them right! And who would want a Targaryen madman's son as King in the North?"

"They think wrong, and we will correct them!" Sansa replied, exasperated. "Are you so eager to run away south and leave me alone? I never believed you were craven, Jon."

Jon deflated. He _didn't_ want to abandon Sansa, any more than he wanted to leave Winterfell. It was home, now more than ever. But the thought of admitting what he was made him sick with dread, and the thought of hiding it forever was worse.

"I was a witness, at the tourney and at the Tower, King Jon," Howland Reed interjected in his quiet manner. "I will provide proof. Any who know you will realize that you are more Stark than Targaryen in all the ways that count."

Jon had no such faith in his fellow men, not after the mutiny. But when the Northmen cast him out, at least Sansa would have a home for Arya to return to.

"Very well," he said. "We will tell them. Today."

Lord Howland smiled sadly. "Lady Lyanna would be proud of the man you've become, your grace."

"Does anyone else know?" asked Sansa suddenly. "You were two men and a newborn babe, surely there was a wet-nurse?"

Trust Sansa to think of the small details! As much as Jon hated Littlefinger, the weasel had trained Sansa to survive a royal court, or perhaps she'd trained herself. Once Joffrey had pulled her head out of the songs she loved so much, she must have learned quickly—too quickly for a young girl, he pondered sadly.

"You're quick, princess," the crannogman replied. "We rode to Starfall first, for that very purpose. Ned insisted on returning Dawn to House Dayne, and while we were there, Lady Ashara provided us with a wet-nurse for the journey. She'd just lost her own babe, and had no need of Wylla. If memory serves, that good woman stayed at Winterfell until King Jon's first nameday—his real one, of course."

"He changed my nameday, too?" Jon asked, aghast. "Is _anything_ about me true?"

Lord Howland sighed. "Remember, your grace, that your father chose to hide you as his bastard. You were a moon older than Robb, his heir by Lady Catelyn. That meant that unless you became a younger son, the Tullys would have even more cause to fear you, the firstborn. You were born early, and such a small babe that no one suspected the truth. You are three moons older than you think you are."

"Wonderful," snarled Jon, fighting the urge to punch something. He was burning up with anger: anger at his mother for running off with a married man, and the son of the Mad King besides; anger at his father for taking her, and for this ridiculous prophecy that had caused so much trouble; last of all, Jon was furious with his uncle, the man he'd loved so dearly, for lying to him all his life.

Cool hands wrapped around his wrist, pulling Jon back to the present.

"Jon," murmured Sansa. "Why don't you visit your mother?"

He took several deep breaths, trying to calm down. When he could finally answer at a normal volume, Jon agreed to his sister's—cousin's—plan.

"What would you like to do with this, your grace?" asked Lord Howland, pointing to the chest. Now that Jon knew what lay within, he realized it had been his mother's hope chest once—one more clue that her flight from the Riverlands had been planned for in advance.

"Have you kept it in Greywater Watch all this time?" asked Sansa.

"Indeed," replied the man. "In fact, I offered to foster King Jon there, as well. I knew his reception would be less than ideal once Lady Catelyn arrived with Robb. Ned wouldn't hear of it; his sister's son was a Stark, he said, and a Stark's place was in Winterfell. So he took the babe, and I took the papers, the cloaks, and the harp."

"If I wanted to hide my identity forever, I could bury the chest in the crypts," Jon thought aloud, "but I don't mean to. I'll need it for the council meeting, and then..."

"And then nothing will change," Sansa insisted. "The lords will applaud your honesty and support you as king. The North loves Lyanna, or at least, the idea of her."

"I'll leave it here for now, and lock the door," Jon decided, disagreeing with Sansa but unwilling to argue. "I'm going to the crypts. Will you come with me, Sansa?"

Sansa smiled gently. "Of course, Jon."

After seeing Lord Howland through the door, Jon locked it, and led his sister down to the crypts. For once, no one bothered the King in the North. Except for the occasional curious wildling, no one but the Starks entered the crypts. There were no treasures down there, nor food. It was cold and dark inside, as always, and deathly silent.

"I used to dream about this," Jon confessed to Sansa as they passed the first statues. "I had to find something in the crypts, and I felt like an invader. I could feel the Kings of Winter staring at me, judging me unworthy, and I screamed that I wasn't a Stark."

"But you are," Sansa protested.

"Perhaps the frightening thing in the crypts was my mother's secret," Jon mused, stopping in front of Lyanna's statue. "People accused her of all sorts of things—Stannis thought I'd been fathered on a fishwife. Theon said she was a whore from the winter town. A few servants whispered about Ashara Dayne. But I knew, deep down, that she was a highborn lady, beautiful and kind. I dreamed of her."

Sansa said nothing, but her left arm snaked around Jon's waist in a silent gesture of comfort and warmth.

"Can you imagine me as Rhaegar Targaryen's son?" Jon said, his voice trembling. "Aemon Targaryen, a prince in the Red Keep, learning sword-fighting from Arthur Dayne by day, and playing the harp by night? My mother, a second queen behind Elia Martell? My brother, the future king on the Iron Throne, probably with my sister for a wife, and me in a white cloak?"

It sounded ridiculous out loud, even more so than it had in Jon's head. He'd wanted to be Aemon the Dragonknight as a child, but _not like this!_

"I don't understand him, Sansa," Jon said, looking for familiar features in his mother's stone face. "How could Rhaegar think it a good idea?"

"Princes do what they like, and don't think of the consequences" said Sansa, and Jon heard bitter experience shining through her even tone. "Do you think Joffrey knew killing Father would start a war? His mother did, but he was too stupid to realize it."

Jon winced. "Thank you for comparing my father to that little shit."

Sansa laughed then, a clear sound that echoed throughout the crypts. For a moment there were hundreds of Stark ladies with him, laughing in mirth.

"You may have been born Aemon Targaryen," she told him at last, "but you're Jon Stark now, the King in the North. That's all that matters. And now you see how much Father loved you; you know how much he valued his honor, and he sacrificed it for _you_. It would have been _so_ easy for him to leave you in the Neck, to be raised far away from Mother, but he did not. And when you look through Aunt Lyanna's chest, you'll see some of her letters," Sansa added. "She wrote one to you, telling you how much she loved you and to be brave. I only saw a few lines, but I expect it was the last she ever wrote."

Jon broke. The anguish, horror, and rage he'd felt throughout the morning burst out of him at once, and he fell to his knees, weeping like a child. Beneath his mother's pale stone gaze, Aemon Targaryen grieved for the mother he had never known, the mother who had lain under his feet, unknown, all these years, and for the father who had raised him—the father he had lost.

In a swish of skirts, Sansa knelt beside him, offering a literal shoulder to cry on. Jon held her tightly, grateful for the silent support but unable to speak. Their shaky breaths steamed in front of their faces, and neither had brought gloves. Sansa drew slow, soothing circles across Jon's back, murmuring comforting nonsense now and then. He supposed she'd had plenty of practice with her Arryn cousin.

After he'd run out of tears, Jon stood on stiff knees and pulled Sansa to her feet.

"Thank you," he said sincerely, kissing her on the cheek. "This was a good idea. I had years of grief bottled up inside, for both of them."

Sansa turned slightly, and Jon saw in the torchlight that she'd been weeping too.

"I know the feeling, Jon," she replied softly. She smiled wryly. "We're in no state to be seen, least of all by the whole council."

"I'm sure," answered Jon, knowing that his face would be puffy and his eyes visibly red. "I'm just glad the Wintersguard are not following us around yet. I'd never survive the shame."

Sansa poked Jon in the ribs, much like Arya had done as a child. "It's not funny, Jon. My dress is filthy now."

"We can sneak around the soldiers," Jon offered, knowing that Sansa had not climbed or explored Winterfell's dark corners as much as her siblings. "Just follow my lead, and I'll get us to our rooms unseen."

His cousin drew herself up to her full height. "Lead the way, your grace."

And up the stairs they went, in a companionable silence.

* * *

 _Since I first posted this story on Ao3, I've received a few comments along the lines of "great story and all, but you should have made Jon's name JAEHAERYS."_ _It was Jaehaerys, back in my first draft. __But then I got into Reddit, and I read things that changed my mind completely. Going by the books alone, Jon's only connected to two Targaryen names: Daeron and Aemon. He compares himself to Maester Aemon, when he thinks of deserting. He also calls himself Aemon the Dragonknight while playing._

 _There are **tons** of quotes I could throw at you, but I'm typing this note on my phone, so I won't. Every Aemon in Targ/Blackfyre history had a brother named Aegon, and we know that Rhaegar and Maester Aemon were in touch via raven. And Aemon refused the Iron Throne; I'm sure Jon would do the same. _

_Let me know your thoughts on the chapter, and a big thanks to everyone who dropped such lovely comments already. They can make an awful day better instantly!_


	11. The Son's Song, Jaime II

**AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 2 - The Son's Song**

 **Jaime II**

The morning after the crannogmen's arrival, Jaime watched with great curiosity as the bastard king, Lady Sansa, and Lord Reed disappeared after breakfast. New ideas had been spinning in his ale-soaked mind, and a restless night had done him no favors. Instead of Cersei and the wildfire, the ghosts of Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower, and Oswell Whent had disturbed his sleep.

The more Jaime thought about it, the surer he became that Howland Reed was revealing the truth to the King in the North. As the newly-minted Kingslayer, he'd paid little attention to the tiny man at Stark's side when the Northmen had passed through King's Landing. He'd been shocked to hear that the Quiet Wolf had somehow killed the Sword of the Morning and his two other Kingsguard brethren, and amused by the so-called Honorable Ned's bastard boy, who looked so like him even as a babe, that no one would have doubted his parentage.

Well, not until now, at least.

How blind had they all been? Stark had ridden off to Dorne to save his sister, a healthy young girl by all accounts, and had returned with her bones and a newborn _child_ , a babe that resembled her as much as he resembled Eddard. It was so painfully obvious now, especially when three Kingsguard had died defending Lyanna Stark and her son, the last Targaryen heir to the Iron Throne!

Jaime shook his head in disgust. Stark, a man with no talent for the game of thrones, had outsmarted them all. Yet he could not resent him for it. Eddard Stark had succeeded with Jon where the Kingsguard had failed with Aegon; he'd protected Rhaegar's last surviving son by sacrificing his own infamous honor.

Once he'd eaten his fill, Jaime wandered aimlessly around the ancient keep. Tyrion had spent most of his time in Winterfell's library, but that had never been of much interest to Jaime. Besides, the library had gone up in flames some time ago. Still, there were plenty of hallways and outbuildings to get lost in, and new people to observe. Jaime had never seen a wildling fight, and watching that lot train would be quite interesting.

A while after the king had disappeared into his solar, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark stepped out of the keep and headed straight for the crypts, confirming Jaime's suspicions. Of _course_ the boy would visit his mother's tomb, now that he knew she was his mother and not his aunt. Jaime wondered how the king felt about it. It must have been a bitter pill to find out not only that she was dead, but also that she'd been Rhaegar's wife or mistress. What did the Northmen know of Rhaegar, except that he'd taken their liege lord's daughter in a fit of madness?

Jon Snow and his sister did not emerge for quite some time. To pass the time, Jaime amused himself by watching the wildlings and Northmen, two peoples that had despised each other for centuries, struggling to work together for the good of the realm. One of the loud wildlings that had volunteered for the Wintersguard, the one the king had hugged like a brother, drilled the others with spears, men and women alike, as men in Manderly, Glover, and Royce colors watched with ill-concealed disdain.

It was shocking to see so many Vale knights here, when they'd sat on their hands for most of the war, but Jaime supposed it shouldn't have been. After all, Jon Arryn had been foster-father to both Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon. The older knights had known dour old Ned since his boyhood, and clearly it was Lysa Arryn—and Littlefinger—that had kept them from aiding Robb Stark.

As a Royce man hollered insults at the wildlings, receiving rude gestures in return, Jaime spied a head of dark hair and a head of auburn sneaking out of the crypts and around the crowded yard. He lost sight of the two Starks behind a wall, but they reappeared closer to the keep. The Kingslayer noticed dark smudges on Sansa's dress around knee height, and the king looked no better. Even from this distance, their faces looked blotchy and red, as though they'd wept.

The newly-sworn Wintersguards in the courtyard never noticed them. Jaime decided he'd have to talk to Snow about it later, before Cersei got assassins into the castle and the new King in the North died like his predecessor.

Jaime wandered back inside, now chilled to the bone. He had only a vague idea of where the family slept, but it was enough to get him near the correct corridor. Just as he'd sat on a nearby windowsill, Jon Snow emerged from his small chamber (far too small for a king), dressed in fresh clothes and wearing a replica of the iron and bronze Crown of Winter. It was an ugly, utilitarian thing, made for hardened warriors with no use for frippery. Jaime had to admit that it suited Jon Snow better than the rubies his father would have given him.

"Lannister!" said the boy, surprised. "What brings you here?"

"I'd like a word, your grace. I noticed that your new guards are nowhere near you, making their vows from last night useless."

The king sighed. "I know, Ser Jaime. I haven't had time to talk to them yet. There were more important things to discuss."

"I imagine so," said Jaime lightly, knowing his face would give him away. " _Your_ parentage is no small thing, your grace."

Just as Jaime had predicted, Jon Snow looked up at him in shock, then an icy cold anger that reminded him forcibly of a young Ned Stark.

"Have you been eavesdropping?"

"A time-honored and essential skill for any Kingsguard, to be sure," Jaime answered mockingly, "but alas; the doors in this castle are too thick for it. There was no need to try it; as soon as I heard you last night, I knew."

"Heard _what_?" asked the king, his frozen Stark face tense.

"Many years ago, your father used to leave the Red Keep with one of us at his back," Jaime told Jon Snow. "He'd cover his silver hair with a cloak, sit by a fountain, and play and sing until he grew bored. Maidens would swoon at the sound of his voice, your mother and my sister included."

The king's mouth twitched. Caution warred with curiosity in a silent struggle that was fascinating to watch.

"It doesn't matter who sired me," he said finally. " _Eddard Stark_ was my father."

Jaime raised an eyebrow. "Are you so quick to dismiss half of your heritage? Rhaegar Targaryen was _not_ the monster you think he was, and you're more like him than you think."

"How so?" asked the King in the North, flexing his right hand. Jaime wondered if the boy meant to punch him. Behind him, Sansa Stark appeared, freshly dressed and combed. The sight of Jaime standing so close to her cousin gave her pause.

"You certainly _look_ like a Stark bastard at first, all cold and grim and long-faced. But the more I look at you, the more I see your true father. You have his build, for one," Jaime said. "And Queen Rhaella's nose. Rhaegar and Viserys had it too. And know this," he finished, letting a dark humor creep into his voice. "Prince Rhaegar could brood better than you _ever_ will. Not that he didn't have reason, mind you, with a mad father that beat and raped his mother when the mood struck. Varys didn't help either, with his whispers that Rhaegar was plotting against Aerys."

"And where were the mighty Kingsguard," asked the boy, his fists clenching, "when the king raped his wife?"

"Standing guard outside, of course," replied Jaime. "I asked once, if we shouldn't help Rhaella. Do you know what my brothers in white told me?"

Jon Snow waited, silent.

"We protect the king. We don't protect the queen from the king." Jaime's self-loathing had resurfaced, and his voice rose as a result. "Do you remember what you were like, when you were young and stupid and thought the Wall would be a great adventure, and the black brothers your valiant companions?"

"I remember," Jon said slowly. "Your brother was the only one to tell me what the Wall was really like."

"Well, Tyrion was too young to advise _me_ ," Jaime continued harshly. "I found out all too soon that I was no valiant protector of maidens, but a hostage in a pretty white cloak. I was there to keep my father from doing anything that displeased Aerys. Under _my_ watch, a queen was brutalized, countless men were burned alive or strangled, and I could do _nothing_. Well, I could—and did—pray for Aerys to die, and for Rhaegar to take his place sooner rather than later."

The Kingslayer's mocking smile reappeared. "But the gods never listened to _me_. So I killed King Scab, and then my own father slaughtered your half-brother and sister, and gave them to Robert as a coronation present. No wonder dear old Ned hid you as far from us as he could."

"Only a Lannister would give dead babes as a present," Jon Snow said coldly, strangely calm to Jaime's ears. "You couldn't even be humane about murdering children; you made them suffer, and made their mother watch."

"There it is," Jaime sighed. "There's that predictable Stark self-righteousness. My father's butchers did that, but you are very quick to attack _me_ for it, just like your dear uncle. Old Ned taught you well."

"Can you honestly say that you were innocent?" the younger man asked, leaning forward, gray eyes glittering with anger. "You were the last Kingsguard in the city, and you'd killed the king. Why weren't you protecting the prince and princess from your father's dogs, instead of sitting on the Iron Throne?"

Jaime was reminded of his nightmares, where a sad Prince Rhaegar asked why Jaime had failed to protect his children. Now his son asked the same question, judging him unworthy with icy gray eyes instead of indigo. Hiding his shame and discomfort, Jaime raised an eyebrow. "Already thinking of them as your brother and sister, are you?"

"No," spat the Northman, "but you wouldn't like it any better if I asked you about Robb, and Bran, and Rickon. Where are _they_ , Lannister?"

Jaime couldn't help but flinch. Robb Stark had been his enemy in battle, but Bran Stark had been naught but a crippled child, trapped in Winterfell for the Ironborn to slaughter, because of _him_. He couldn't deny it, and he wasn't sure how much Jon Snow knew of the affair. And Arya? Jon Snow had not mentioned her since last night, but his unfulfilled oath to Catelyn Stark still stung what was left of Jaime's battered conscience. The war-torn Riverlands were no place for a child to wander alone.

"What do you want, Kingslayer?" asked Jon Snow again, sounding exhausted. "You didn't come here just to suggest I start a Kingsguard or to chat about my father. Why have you come?"

"I'm here to fight, like I said before."

"Why?"

"If Cersei is as mad as I think she is, she will throw the South into a war she cannot win, and I refuse to send my men to die for nothing. I'd rather die fighting your White Walkers than sitting on my arse in King's Landing, or watching my bannermen get roasted alive by dragons."

"You don't even believe the Others exist! Why would you fight for our side?" the King in the North asked, growing visibly impatient.

Jaime met the boy's gray eyes with his green ones. "A long time ago, when being in the Kingsguard meant something, three of the best men I knew died protecting you in the mountains of Dorne. They knew the war was lost, and they gave their lives anyway. I want to see if you were worth their sacrifice, Jon Snow, son of Rhaegar."

The King in the North grimaced.

"Your brothers in white died for Prince Aemon Targaryen," he said, looking lost. "Not me. And once I inform the council of what I am, it's likely that they'll take my head or banish me, leaving your fate out of my hands."

Jaime's heart dropped into his boots. "Are you _mad_? These people went to war with the Targaryens! Why would you tell them anything?"

The boy looked at Jaime with naked disgust. "I accepted this title thinking I was the last living son of Eddard Stark, and only because Sansa agreed to it. I know better now, and I am neither a usurper nor a liar."

Sansa Stark's face was a picture of silent distress.

"And does your cousin agree with this decision?" prodded Jaime, nodding to his former goodsister.

"I told him it would make no difference," Lady Sansa replied firmly, but Jaime saw fear in those Tully blue eyes. "He is the White Wolf, their chosen King in the North, and he's just as much a Stark as ever, only he's Aunt Lyanna's son instead of Father's."

"You're as foolish as your uncle, that's certain," said Jaime, not comprehending how someone could be so rigid in their notion of honor. He'd expected better from the boy, especially after his visit to the dungeon, when he'd claimed he was more flexible than Eddard Stark. "How many people have died to protect you, and you would throw their sacrifice away like this? In the name of your tree gods, _why_?"

"Do you think such a thing could be kept secret forever?" cried the King in the North. "What if Daenerys Targaryen comes to visit with a dragon, and the dragon recognizes my father's blood? I'd rather reveal it on my own terms, come what may. If there is no place at Winterfell for the son of a dead prince, _so be it._ "

 _Damn him to the seven hells!_ thought Jaime furiously. A suicidal King in the North should have been no concern of his, but Jaime was loath to let Rhaegar's third child die a _second_ time, no matter how stupid.

"If I keep my title, which I doubt," Snow said finally, "we may discuss the Wintersguard later, Lannister. For now, Sansa and I must attend a council meeting."

He took his sister's arm, and led her away from Jaime.

"You stupid _fool_ _!_ " Jaime exploded, angry and worried beyond reason. "You'll end up like your uncle, beheaded with your own sword! You claim the Dead are coming, and you would leave your cousin to fight that war alone?"

Jon Snow turned back toward Jaime, wearing a small, sad smile that was hauntingly familiar. Jaime knew he'd seen it on Rhaegar's face, as well as Rhaella's.

"If the northern lords kill me for being the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, the war is lost either way. The Ironborn, the Boltons, and the Lannisters made sure of it. We'll never survive without dragons and dragonglass, and who will bring us those if not the other surviving Targaryen?"

Without another word, the King in the North left Jaime alone. Feeling twenty years older and full of dread, Jaime turned to head back to the White Sword Tower. Then he remembered that he was in Winterfell, not King's Landing, and he'd just said a final farewell to Aemon Targaryen, and not his silver-haired father. The realization didn't make him feel any better.


	12. The Son's Song, Sansa IV

**AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 2 - The Son's Song**

 **Sansa IV**

Sansa felt like she'd swallowed a pit of snakes. Two hours ago, she'd been utterly convinced that the northern lords would take Jon as he was, and accept him as king even with Rhaegar Targaryen for a father. Now, as she sat on Jon's right and waited for the council meeting to begin, her stomach was twisting into knots inside her. Jaime Lannister had voiced the fears she'd tried to bury, and she was fighting the urge to take Jon and run for their lives. In a moment of awful clarity, Sansa realized that her poor father had lived with this fear since he'd found Aunt Lyanna and Jon, and her heart broke for him.

She tried to return greetings with her usual polite smile, but it was difficult. A few lords spared her the effort by not paying attention, busy chatting amongst themselves. Lord Royce, who had joined the council as the Vale's representative, was deep in conversation with Lord Manderly about the soldiers' training, while Lady Mormont and Lord Glover discussed defenses against Ironborn raids on the western shore. Lord Reed took his seat quietly, giving Sansa a small, encouraging smile. He looked childlike next to the much taller Hugo Wull.

Jon was even more painfully quiet than usual, nodding to his lords but saying nothing. From her seat beside him, Sansa could see him flexing his burned hand, covered by his usual black gloves. His other hand tapped absently against the tabletop, and the direwolf glory box lay on the floor beside his chair.

Lady Brienne came last, closing the door behind her. At the last moment, Sansa had remembered that the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard belonged on the Small Council, and had mentioned this to Jon. Since Brienne had served Sansa before Jon's coronation, and had volunteered for the Wintersguard before anyone else, it had seemed only right to name her Lady Commander. Jon had invited her to join the council, and Sansa was delighted to have another lady in the room. Lyanna Mormont barely counted as one at her age, and Lady Tallhart was not talkative.

The Hand of the King stood.

"Be welcome to the Council of the North," began Lord Davos, consulting the notes he'd written in his own clumsy, unpracticed hand. "Our first order of business is the division of Northmen and Free Folk marching north this very day, under the command of Lord Harwyn Wull. What news, my lord?"

Harwyn Wull, son of Big Bucket Wull, stood immediately, lacing his hands behind his broad back. He was the image of his father, but with a smaller belly and fewer wrinkles. "Twelve hundred men march with me after the midday meal, your grace, with provision for six moons and a wagon of ravens. We'll march northwest to the Bay of Ice in a fortnight, and sail north to the Wall from there."

"Once we reach the Wall, I will send two hundred men to Sentinel Stand, two hundred to Greyguard, two hundred to Stonedoor, two hundred to Hoarfrost Hill, two hundred to Icemark, and the last two hundred to Deep Lake. A quarter of these men have the tools and knowledge to repair the ruined castles, and we bring a dozen clan and wildling healers as well, two for each fort."

Sansa saw a light appear in Jon's dark gray eyes. She knew he'd dreamed of manning the abandoned castles as Lord Commander, and had begun the work before the mutiny. It was heartening to see some hope return to her cousin's face.

"We'll all sleep sounder with so many hardy Northmen and Free Folk on the Wall," Jon said, satisfied, "and Lord Commander Tollett will be glad to have you and your supplies."

"Aye," chorused the council.

"Very well, thank you, my lord," said Lord Davos, making a small note on his list.

The meeting went on, discussing provisions at each of the keeps, a message sent to the Iron Bank, and a betrothal between Lynara Locke of Oldcastle and Rodwell Flint, heir to Widow's Watch. Though Sansa was usually attentive, she was too nervous to pay proper attention to each item discussed. Then, Ser Davos brought her wandering mind back to the council with an unpleasant jolt.

"Lord Reed, have you any news for the council on your first visit?"

The crannogman stood, though it made little difference with his small stature. It was surprising to see the respect the other lords gave Lord Reed; the North had regarded crannogmen with suspicion and even disdain for most of their history, but Eddard Stark had done much to change that. Though Sansa's father had not spoken much of the war, it was well known that Howland Reed had once saved his liege lord's life in battle against the Kingsguard, and had brought Lady Lyanna Stark's remains home. For the council, that was proof enough of the crannogman's worth.

"I have two items to bring to the council's attention, your grace, my lords," said Lord Reed, bowing slightly. "The first is that news have reached my scouts south of our lands; Lord Walder Frey and several of his sons are dead. An assassin slit the old man's throat as he ate, and the rumors say that his sons were baked into the pies he was eating for his last meal."

The reaction to this piece of news was mixed. Lady Brienne looked disgusted, while others cried loudly that it was what the old turncloak deserved, for breaking guest right and betraying both his liege lord and his king. Even the wildlings had not believed the Freys' gross breach in human decency at first, sure that even ignorant southrons would not dare disrespect the gods in such a way. Hatred of the Freys was one of the few things the Northmen and the Free Folk had bonded over.

Sansa herself was torn between revulsion and a fierce, icy sense of _justice_. The three men most responsible for the Red Wedding—Tywin Lannister, Roose Bolton, and Walder Frey—had died undignified, cruel deaths worthy of their crimes, she thought. Tywin Lannister, shot on the privy; Roose Bolton, betrayed by his own son, and now Walder Frey, served his sons in a pie and his throat slit.

Lord Manderly surprised them all by laughing heartily, clutching his enormous belly as though he feared it would escape.

"Serves him right, the old weasel!" he said, wiping eyes that were streaming with mirth. "Tonight, let the bards sing of the Rat Cook, and let the wolves howl accompaniment! The North remembers!"

"It seems that the North been avenged, your grace," said Lord Glover, looking deeply satisfied. "My brother Galbart was lost at the Twins. I'm glad he and all of the others will rest in peace now."

"Ah," said Lord Reed, glancing at Robett Glover uncertainly. "That brings me to my second piece of news, my lords. As I informed His Grace earlier today, King Robb sent Lady Maege and Lord Galbart into the Neck to find me, carrying a copy of the king's will. They managed to deliver it, before they fell into Bolton hands. I'm sorry to say that Lady Mormont and Lord Glover were ambushed not by Freys, but by Bolton bannermen. My people slew the murderers, but it was too late to save Maege and Galbart."

"Your grace!" cried Lady Mormont, standing abruptly. "What is to be done with the Dreadfort?"

Sansa saw Jon start in surprise, and then understanding flooded his features. They both recognized the sudden rage of a child wishing to avenge a murdered parent.

"The Dreadfort belongs to the last Lady Bolton, to do with as she pleases," he said, gesturing toward Sansa with his left hand. Sansa tried not to flinch at the title. "That said, if Princess Sansa decides to tear it apart stone by stone, and send the materials to each house betrayed by the Boltons, I have no objection. Let the whole of the North see what happens to traitors, and let Bolton stonework repair the castles their treachery destroyed."

There were some angry murmurs of approval at this.

"Rest assured, Lady Mormont," Sansa spoke up, keeping her voice strong and queenly, "that there will be _no_ trace left of House Bolton or their home. It won't bring your mother back, or mine, but they'll rest easier knowing their murderers are no more."

"Well said," answered Lord Glover, saddened but not entirely surprised at the news of his brother. Sansa supposed his initial rejection of the Stark cause must sting more than ever.

"My lords, I would share King Robb's will with you," Jon said, reaching into his mother's direwolf box and pulling out the will. "Lord Reed has shared something I did not know before today, and I will not proceed until you are all aware of it."

He stood and read the will, unflinching even as his eyes glistened with unshed tears. Jon had confessed to Sansa, one sleepless night, that he'd almost deserted the Night's Watch when he'd heard of Robb's campaign. Loyal friends had brought him back, but he'd always wondered if riding south to Robb might have saved him. Sansa knew it wouldn't have, but it was hard to convince oneself of such things in the late watches of the night, when their demons came to haunt them.

When Jon had finished, a few lords looked at each other in what Sansa hoped was confusion.

"We've chosen well then, your grace," said Lord Manderly finally. "And I will be proud to honor King Robb's wishes and call you Jon _Stark_ , our King in the North!"

"Hear, hear!" said the others.

"I am grateful for that, my lords, truly," said Jon, pacing slightly between his chair and the table. "I loved Robb dearly, and I am humbled by the trust he placed in me. However, there was something that both he and I did not know when he wrote this will."

Sansa's hands were shaking. She clutched them together on her lap, wishing Jon would shut his mouth. Everyone was so happy about Walder Frey's death and Robb's will that it seemed a terrible shame to ruin it all.

"You all know that Eddard Stark brought me to Winterfell as a babe and raised me as his bastard, risking the wrath of the Tullys and besmirching his own reputation as a man of honor. I'd never known the man to lie, but there was one thing he would not say, and that was my mother's name."

Lord Cerwyn frowned. "Your grace, surely you don't think that matters to us? We chose you for a king knowing you were Lord Eddard's natural son."

"There's the rub, Lord Cerwyn," said Jon, wearing a very sad smile. "I am Rickard Stark's grandson, true enough, and I loved Eddard Stark as much as a son could love a father, but he was _not_ my father." He paused briefly, as though he were gathering his courage.

"Eddard Stark was my uncle."

Some lords frowned. Others looked blankly at Jon. Then, Lord Flint laughed heartily.

"That boy was a sly one!" he cried. "I knew the Ned was too honorable to sire a bastard on any man's daughter! He brought home Brandon's son!"

That brought on a round of chatter, as several lords admitted that they'd always found that fishy, and of _course_ Ned would have raised his beloved brother's bastard as his own. At first, no one heard poor Jon, who was trying to shut down this line of reasoning.

 _Let them think it, Jon_ , Sansa pleaded wordlessly. _You'd still be a Stark, still Father's nephew, without throwing Targaryens into the mix! Please!_

But Jon did not look her way.

"My lords!" he shouted finally. "I'm glad to restore Eddard Stark's honor, but you mistake me. Brandon Stark was _also_ my uncle." Before anyone could claim he was Uncle Benjen's, Jon went on. "I am _Lyanna_ Stark's son."

The silence that followed this announcement was absolute. Sansa's hands had gone clammy and cold. Jon's stoic expression, the same she'd seen on her father's face as he waited to be executed, was _not_ helping her nerves.

"I accepted the crown believing myself to be Eddard Stark's son, albeit a bastard," Jon continued, finally breaking the stillness in the room. "I never wished to usurp any of my siblings, and I only agreed because Sansa encouraged it. But now I know that I'm not even that. Should you wish it, I will step down immediately and serve Queen Sansa in any capacity she sees fit."

"Lady Lyanna's son, you say," Lord Norrey said shrewdly. "But who was your sire, your grace?"

"My mother married on the Isle of Faces," Jon replied, then reached into the box and pulled out the two wedding cloaks, placing them on the table. "She wed Rhaegar Targaryen, my father."

Sansa watched the council carefully, knowing that at any moment, someone could lose their temper and attack. She was sure that Tormund, Brienne, and Lord Reed would protect Jon, but the others were all unpredictable. There was a long, uncomfortable silence as the northern council looked at Lyanna's direwolf cloak, and her husband's jewelled dragon cloak beside it.

"You may have a small member, King Crow," said Tormund Giantsbane admiringly, breaking the silence, "but you have balls the size of mountains! Targaryens were those mad southrons everyone wanted to kill, yes? And you admit you're one of them, just like that? Har!"

Lord Royce had been silent throughout the meeting, except when the news of Walder Frey had come. He stood now, surprising everyone.

"Your grace, this man is right," he said, clearly not knowing Tormund's name after weeks of sitting together on the council. "You could have hidden this forever. You might have claimed Eddard, Brandon, or Benjen Stark as a father, and none of us but Lord Reed would have known. Yet you chose the truth, no matter how difficult. He did not sire you, but Eddard Stark raised you with honor, and it _shows_." He took a breath. "The Vale will not break faith now. Targaryen or Stark, my men and I will follow you against the threat in the North."

He sat, shaming the Northmen into action.

"You have the Stark face, the Stark honor, and a symbol of House Stark that follows your every move," Lord Manderly said, nodding at the silent Ghost in the corner. "There is no trace of the dragons' madness in you, your grace. White Harbor will follow you to the end, Jon _Stark_."

The bundle of nerves in Sansa's belly loosened, and she nearly sank into her chair in relief. Something must have shown on her face, because Lady Mormont called to her.

"What say you, Princess Sansa? Do you not wish to be queen?"

"I do not," Sansa replied. "In the years I've spent away from Winterfell, I've learned to play at southron politics that are no use here. What the North needs is a man of honor we can trust, and a warrior who can lead the fight against the Others. I agree with Robb; there is no one better than our cousin Jon for this task, and I'm sure Arya and Bran would support him if they were here."

"Your grace," said Lady Brienne hesitantly. "If you're the last trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen, does that not give you a claim over the Iron Throne?"

Jon snorted. "I want _nothing_ to do with it," he said immediately. "Let Cersei Lannister cut herself to ribbons on it; we have better things to worry about, and I'll not send any more Northmen to die south of the Neck. Winterfell is the only home I ever wanted, throne or no, and it is Winterfell and the North that I mean to defend."

Sansa watched several council members, most notably Ser Davos and Lady Tallhart, sigh in relief.

"Then there is nothing more to discuss," said Harwyn Wull simply. "Targaryen or Snow, it doesn't matter; King Robb has made you a Stark, your grace, and we find it most fitting. You are your mother's son."

Sansa smiled. "Thank you, my lord. My cousin was convinced that once you all knew, you would call for his head, and yet, he insisted on telling you."

"They deserved to know," Jon said firmly. "If Daenerys Targaryen takes the southron throne from Cersei Lannister, she may turn north next. Before the dragons come, you all deserved to know that you chose a half-dragon, half-wolf for a king."

Davos Seaworth's jaw dropped. "But your grace, if you're Rhaegar's son, that makes you the last Targaryen of the male line, and you have a better claim than her own!"

"It does," said Jon. "But if she kills me for it, she'll be a kinslayer in the eyes of gods and men. It would be a terrible beginning to her reign over the south."

"She's more likely to ask for a marriage alliance," Lord Glover said, raising his brows. "The Targaryens loved to marry brothers and nephews, and you're both young, unmarried, and handsome by all accounts."

Sansa watched Jon turn pink.

"I'm sure it won't come to that. What is a Northman raised as a bastard to her? She has richer prey in the south, perfumed summer knights with nothing to do but win tourneys and play at romance."

 _Oh, the irony_ , thought Sansa. Jon had just described his father in the most unflattering way possible, short of calling him a mad rapist.

Just as the chuckles were dying, an urgent knock on the door disturbed the jovial atmosphere.

"Come," said Jon.

In came the Glover maester, who was at Winterfell on loan while they waited for the Citadel to send a new one. The Boltons' maester had been brutally killed some time after Sansa's escape, and had he lived, none would have trusted him anyway.

"Your grace, there's a raven from Castle Black," said the old man in his usual raspy voice. "The raven brought two messages—one has the Night's Watch seal, and one has a direwolf in the same black wax."

Sansa was closer to the door than Jon or Davos. A proper princess did not snatch things out of people's hands, but that is what she did. She ripped open the direwolf-sealed note and devoured its contents like the sigil of her house would devour a fresh kill.

 ** _Dear Jon and Sansa_** ** _,_** she read aloud,

 ** _Congratulations to the new King in the North! I heard you took back Winterfell from the Boltons. Well done, both of you!_**

 ** _Travel is slow and difficult since we lost Hodor, but Lady Meera Reed has taken care of me as well as anyone could, and brought me to Castle Black. The Black Brothers told me much of what happened since I went north, and I can't wait to come home. I'm_** ** _glad_** ** _Jon is free of the Watch and Sansa is free of the Boltons, and I have much to tell you both._**

 ** _Bran_**

 ** _Jon—I saw Uncle Benjen. He can't come south, but he's doing what he can to help against the Others._**

 ** _Sansa—Do NOT let Jon abdicate for my sake. I have another part to play, and he will be a King in the North that Father would be proud of._**

"He's alive!" cried Jon, looking well and truly stunned. "First Arya, now Bran and Benjen!"

Sansa hugged him tightly. "We have to bring him home, Jon. Send out riders, and a sled. I don't think his special riding saddle survived the sacking."

"I agree. I'll send an escort to meet them and bring them home. Lord Reed, we owe you many thanks for your daughter's help," Jon said, turning to Lord Reed.

"My Jojen went with them, too," the man responded, very subdued. "He did not survive the journey, it seems."

"I am sorry," Jon replied. Sansa knew he was feeling bad for celebrating while his bannerman grieved.

The Lord of Greywater Watch stood wearily, and placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. He was so short that it was an awkward position for him.

"Jojen knew when he would die. He was a greenseer, you see. He knew he must come to Winterfell to help Prince Bran, and so he did, knowing what it would cost him. We must all play our part. After all, the Others are coming."

"Indeed," said Lord Wull. "Well, your grace, at least Prince Bran saved you the trouble this time. We'll hear no more of you stepping aside. The last son of the Ned agrees with King Robb _and_ this council: you are our King in the North until your last day."

Even Jon couldn't hold back a chuckle. "It's not that I was eager to desert my post, my lords. I just couldn't bear to think that I'd stolen the title from the siblings I love, especially when a small, selfish part of me always wished to be Lord of Winterfell. _That_ , I will not take from Bran."

"May I speak, your grace?" said Davos gently. "My lords, I rode to Castle Black with King Stannis Baratheon, where we met a young boy named Jon Snow. Stannis offered to legitimize him and make him Lord of Winterfell, the two things he wanted most in the world. But given the choice, he said _Winterfell belongs to my sister, Sansa_. He refused to break his Night's Watch oath, no matter how tempting. Now, I'm not a Northman, and a bit of an outsider in this council, but I will say that you've chosen well. Jon Sno—Jon _Stark_ is the worthiest king I've met, and I've met more kings than most Fleabottom men do in a lifetime."

"That's going to take some getting used to," Tormund grumbled. "Jon Stark. Do you have flowery southron names and titles too, now that you're the son of a dead prince?"

"Lady Lyanna named him Prince Aemon Targaryen," replied Lord Howland Reed, amused. "Brother to Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen. Had his father and brother lived, His Grace might have become Prince of a rebuilt Summerhall."

Tormund swore.

"Just call me Jon Snow, Tormund," Jon said, to laughter from the northern lords. "If you call for Aemon Targaryen, I'll look around for old Maester Aemon. And I can't think of myself as Jon Stark, not yet; I've been a Snow for too long."

"Your grace, the other letter?" interjected the maester, giving Jon the letter with the Night's Watch seal. Sansa watched her cousin rip it open and read it quickly.

"There's nothing new," Jon said, and the whole room sighed in relief. "Edd just says that they found Bran and Lady Meera, that they're well, and that he approves of our plan to garrison the abandoned forts. And he curses me to the seven hells for leaving him with such a thankless job."

"Well, then," said Sansa. "I suppose the men bound for the Wall are free to go. But we still need to send a group to Castle Black to get Bran."

"Would fifty be enough?" asked Jon, looking at Sansa in doubt. "They'll move slowly, and the weather may turn treacherous. And I don't want Bran anywhere near the Ironborn again. Perhaps we should send them the long way 'round, through White Harbor."

"The sea is even more treacherous in winter, your grace," Davos objected.

"He's right," said Lady Mormont. "Prince Bran will be safer coming down the Kingsroad, now that the Boltons are gone. I will gladly volunteer ten of my men to bring him home."

"I will send half of the Wintersguard, as well," Jon decided.

"Your grace, if you wish it I will select a dozen Vale knights to escort Prince Bran on his journey home," Lord Royce offered.

"Thank you, my lord," replied the king. "Commander Brienne, Lady Mormont, Lord Royce, have your chosen men ready to depart tomorrow morning. Princess Sansa will see them outfitted and provisioned for the journey."

Sansa nodded in agreement. Jon was good at managing supplies, especially the ever-diminishing foodstuffs at Castle Black, but this was one of the responsibilities she'd taken on for herself. It was the least she could do for Bran, and for Jon, who had more duties now than ever.

"Let's take a break," the King in the North suggested. "I'm sure I'm not the only one with a growling belly by now, and we've had a few surprises today."

Slowly, the council dispersed, leaving Sansa alone in the solar with Jon and his mother's box. She watched him fold his Targaryen and Stark cloaks reverently, and place them back into the chest along with Robb's will and Jon's new crown. Once the lid was shut, the King in the North had vanished, leaving only Jon Snow.

"I'm sorry I ever called you craven," Sansa told her cousin, approaching him slowly and wrapping her arms around his waist. "I've never been so scared in my life. Even when Father confessed to treason, or when Stannis was at the gates of King's Landing, I still had hope that things would turn out alright, because _surely_ there were more decent people in the world than evil ones. Now? I was waiting for someone to draw a weapon and stab you, but you didn't even flinch. You reminded me so much of Father."

Jon wrapped his own arms around her.

"I'm sorry I worried you," he murmured. "But it needed to be done. I've never been good at pretending; playing turncloak north of the Wall took more effort than I'm willing to put in for the rest of my life, however long that may be. And I meant what I said to Ser Jaime; if they can't even consider a Targaryen, even a Targaryen born after the Mad King's death, then we're doomed. I don't have the weapons to fight the Others by myself, and it sounds like my aunt Daenerys does."

"Mayhaps your friend will discover a new weapon at the Citadel," Sansa replied, slightly muffled because she was speaking into his thick winter doublet, one she'd embroidered herself. "There has to be something."

"I hope so, Sansa," he replied, pulling back from their embrace. A gloved hand traced the tear falling down her right cheek. "What's this? Bran is alive and coming home, remember? This is no time to weep. At least, you can wait until we're all together, and then cry from happiness."

Sansa chuckled. She supposed she'd known, deep down, that Jon had a sense of humor, but she had not seen much of it as a girl; she'd avoided him too often since her mother and septa had explained what bastards were, and she had missed many of her siblings' adventures and games with Jon. Although he'd forgiven her, it still pained her to know how much of her childhood she'd wasted dreaming of the south, instead of appreciating her wild, loving, _northern_ family.

"Come, you're the King in the North," said Sansa, releasing her cousin. "You must eat something, or you'll faint in front of your men and shame House Stark."

"We can't have that," Jon sighed, opening the door to exit the solar.

One step later, he'd nearly crashed into an anxious Jaime Lannister.


	13. The Son's Song, Jaime III

**AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 2 - The Son's Song**

 **Jaime III**

Jaime had never been so glad to see a king in his life.

He'd watched from a distance as the council of Northmen dispersed, joined by Lady Brienne and the king's enormous direwolf, but their frozen faces revealed nothing. It was impossible to tell if Jon Snow had made his confession, or if he'd saved it for later. Jaime had seen a maester rush in with news, so mayhaps the old man had stopped the boy from throwing away his life.

When the king finally emerged from the solar, he nearly walked into Jaime.

"You again," sighed Jon Snow, taking a step back.

"Well? Do they know?" asked Jaime, unable to stop himself. Rhaegar's son looked almost amused at the Kingslayer's anxiety.

"They know," he answered simply. "And they won't let me abdicate."

Jaime caught a small, proud smile on Lady Sansa's face.

"Well then, I must congratulate you, your grace," the Kingslayer told her, feeling almost giddy with relief. "You predicted their reaction better than your cousin or I. But that won't save your king from Cersei's assassins, or from Varys, if the good-for-nothing eunuch ever resurfaces. I expect he's gone to grovel at Daenerys' feet."

"I'm prepared to listen to your recommendations for my Wintersguard," King Jon replied. "We might as well do that now. Come in," he gestured, motioning for Jaime to follow him into the solar. "Sansa, will you join us?"

"Of course," she replied. "But I'll have the servants bring us some luncheon first. Ruling is hungry work."

"Aye," sighed the King in the North, taking a seat at the head of the table. There was a wooden chest on it, next to the king's place. It had skillful carvings of direwolves all around the sides, and a single wolf on top.

"This is the proof Lord Reed brought me," the king explained, having noticed Jaime's curious look. "My mother's glory box, recovered from a tower in Dorne. Have a look inside, if you wish."

Jaime did not wait for a second invitation. He opened the chest, and carefully removed the Crown of Winter that lay on top of some folded garments. Once he'd removed those, he swallowed hard at the sight of the Targaryen dragon, ruby-encrusted and glimmering in the winter sunlight. It looked just like the cloak Rhaegar had given Elia Martell on his first wedding day. The gray direwolf of House Stark followed, embroidered carefully on a white cloak trimmed with fur.

He withdrew the cloaks, and Jaime's breath caught at the sight of the silver-stringed harp. He hadn't seen it in almost twenty years, but he knew it at once. Even if he had not, the tiny dragons adorning the neck of the instrument were a dead giveaway.

With trembling hands, Jaime took the harp from the box, and placed it atop the folded cloaks. That left just the letters on the bottom of the Stark chest. Jaime recognized the Silver Prince's handwriting, along with his Lord Commander's. Gerold Hightower's letter proclaimed the truth for all to read—that the young king in front of Jaime was Aemon Targaryen, rightful ruler of Westeros from the tragic day of his birth.

Before Jaime could open his mouth, the king interrupted him.

"I'm not fighting for the Iron Throne," he said brusquely. "I don't care that my claim is stronger than my aunt's, and I don't want to reunite the Seven Kingdoms. I want the North to survive the next winter, and my family to return home, that's all."

"You could be the best king to sit on that throne since Jaehaerys the Conciliator," Jaime told him, feeling strangely wistful. "Do you know how many of us wished your father had lived to become king? _He_ would never have squandered six million gold pieces on parties and whores, or sired six-and-ten bastards in every corner of the kingdom; I'm sure _you_ wouldn't, either."

"My father started a war by taking another man's betrothed while married, so I wouldn't hold him up as the golden standard of kingship," Rhaegar's son answered, frowning. "Besides, I belong in the North. Do you really think I would survive in that den of liars and backstabbers? Sansa did, but Sansa wore her courtesies like armor. _I_ have no such protection."

"If you can make wildlings play nicely with knights of the Vale and lords of the North, I don't see why you couldn't bring order to King's Landing," Jaime shrugged.

"I'll remind you that I was _murdered by my own men_ , for a start. The knights and Free Folk are only playing nicely because there's a worse enemy coming," Aemon Targaryen replied, brutally honest. "For now, that's enough. And the age of Targaryen dominion over the Iron Throne is over. Mayhaps my aunt will restore it," he admitted, tilting his head to one side, "but if she does, it will be _her_ throne. The North chose me to rule them because they think I'm the man for the job. What gives me the right to rule the South? I've never even _seen_ it!"

"What gave your grandfather Aerys the right, or Jaehaerys, or Aegon the Unlikely? What gives your aunt the right to rule a South _she_ has never seen?" Jaime shrugged. "Why did the Starks rule the North for centuries? Conquest or tradition, your grace."

Lady Sansa re-entered the room, followed by a pretty maid carrying plates of steaming food and mugs of ale. Once they'd set everything down, Sansa dismissed the maid and took her seat next to her cousin.

"Have I missed anything of import?" she asked quietly.

"Not at all," King Aemon replied, after taking a drink. "I showed Ser Jaime the chest Lord Howland brought."

The Stark girl's bit her lip in frustration, then spoke. "Father showed Cersei Lannister a paper, remember? She ripped it to pieces and had him arrested."

"Well then, it's a good thing I'm not Cersei," Jaime shot back, annoyed. "Do you see any ripped papers here, Princess?"

They _always_ did this. As soon as Jaime thought common ground had been reached, and the Starks understood him, they'd have a fresh barb to get under his skin.

"Lady Brienne was Kingsguard to Renly Baratheon," Sansa told her royal cousin, cutting her meat into small pieces and watching Jaime with unwarranted suspicion. "We could have asked _her_ instead, Jon."

Jaime narrowly avoided choking on his food. "Why don't you ask her how long that lasted? Renly's Rainbow Guard was a mummer's farce. They wasted their time playing at war instead of waging it, and he only appointed her because she bested his best knights. Is _that_ the Kingsguard you wish to replicate?"

"Oh no, I'd rather replicate the Kingsguard that stripped and beat little girls to amuse a smirking, inbred little shit," Aemon snarled, a sudden rage burning in those gray eyes. Now that Jaime knew to look for it, he did not see Ned Stark's righteous fury, but Rhaegar's. The Silver Prince had been furious when he'd seen his mother's bruises and scars, and powerless to stop Aerys from hurting her further. "The Hound had plenty to say about _that_ when he passed through here."

"Then you should know that I was nowhere near King's Landing when that happened," Jaime interjected swiftly, before the boy decided to remove his head after all. "I was your brother's prisoner at the time, and you know it, your grace."

"It wasn't him, Jon," Lady Sansa admitted, resentful but honest. "It was mostly Meryn Trant and Boros Blount."

"I never liked them either, for what it's worth," Jaime told them over a mouthful of meat. "Blount was a craven and a windbag, and Trant was repugnant. I never meant for you to replicate the Kingsguard of _today_ ; none of those curs are fit to wear the white cloak."

"So according to you, the Rainbow Guard was useless, and the Kingsguard is no better; what, then, am I to do with my sworn protectors?" asked the King in the North, looking at Jaime with a raised eyebrow.

"You take the Kingsguard _I_ joined as a model, your grace" Jaime replied. "The Kingsguard of Aemon the Dragonknight, Ser Duncan the Tall, Barristan the Bold, and Ser Arthur Dayne. If any of those men could see what became of their noble order, they'd be spinning in their graves."

Jon Snow—Aemon Targaryen, the Dragonknight's very _northern_ namesake—was hooked.

Jaime fought the urge to laugh. Was there a boy in the kingdom that _hadn't_ dreamed of becoming Aemon the Dragonknight or the Sword of the Morning? Even the king's gray eyes had lit up with interest.

"You do realize that none of my guards are sworn knights?" he said, hesitating. "And that they won't serve for life?"

"That hardly matters," Jaime answered, shrugging again. "How many men do you know that were not worthy of the title _ser_ , and how many brave men—and women, I suppose—that were never knighted? If they fight with honor and skill for their liege lord, protect women and children and dispense justice, then they're as good as knights."

"That's an interesting way to look at it, from an anointed southron knight," the king thought aloud. "But very well, Ser Jaime. You've been Lord Commander of the Kingsguard; what duties ought we give to Lady Brienne in that capacity?"

"The Lord Commander is part of the small council," Jaime said immediately. "A boring but necessary job. The commander is also the one who assigns the other guards to their duties, unless the king should overrule those orders. He updates the entries in the White Book, where the deeds of the Kingsguard are written. He is responsible for the everyday business of maintaining the brotherhood in armor—buying horses, repairing breastplates, approving squires and spending money for knights that must travel in the service of the king."

The king nodded, chewing on a piece of bread. As Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Jaime supposed he was familiar enough with those duties.

"The primary duty of any Kingsguard is to lay down their lives for the king if needed, but that goes without saying," Jaime continued. "One of the seven must be with the king at all times, or at least, standing guard outside his chambers. Another member must guard the small council chamber, especially if the king attends. The others may be divided between the king's family members. Should the king fight in a war, the Kingsguard follow him into battle or guard his family as ordered."

"If there is a rogue threat in the kingdom, such as the Smiling Knight, or Gregor Clegane," Jaime finished, "the king may send some of his Kingsguard to take charge of local soldiers and destroy the threat. Or he might send his Kingsguard to infiltrate enemy castles and rescue damsels, like Ser Barristan's rescue of Lady Swann."

"That will do," sighed the King in the North. "I doubt the rules of the Kingsguard have anything about fighting White Walkers or wights."

"No, I can safely say they do not," Jaime replied, spearing a carrot.

"Well, we haven't done badly for our first day," King Aemon decided. "Six of our twelve will leave for a rescue mission, and our Lady Commander is already on the council, thanks to Sansa," he said. "I suppose I'll have to make the rest of them follow us like lost puppies, standing guard in shifts while we sleep and train and piss—"

"Jon!" chastised Lady Sansa.

"Did you have to follow King Robert to the privy, and to the brothels? He was clearly a frequent visitor to those places," asked King Jon, sounding disgusted.

"Of course," replied Jaime. "We follow the king _everywhere_."

The King in the North made a wordless noise of revulsion.

"If you were hoping for a discreet tumble with a winter town whore, I'm afraid that's no longer possible, your grace. The Wintersguard will keep your secrets, but it is harder to hide a man with twelve shadows."

The boy's gray eyes flashed angrily, piercing Jaime through. "That's not funny, Lannister. I swore I would _never_ father a bastard when I was five years old, and I mean to keep that promise!"

For a moment, Jaime thought he'd go into a rant. For one wild, extraordinary blink of an eye, he was reminded not of Ned Stark or Rhaegar, but of Aerys. _You woke the dragon_ , he thought, stunned. _You found the ice dragon hiding deep inside the direwolf, and you prodded its weak spot until he snapped._

But then, before Jaime's eyes, the dragon disappeared, leaving only the cold, even-tempered White Wolf.

"Oh," the king exhaled, forcibly calming his rage. "I keep forgetting."

"Jon?" asked Sansa, looking confused.

"I'm not a bastard anymore. Well, I never was, really, unless you ask the septons," he said, sheepish. "That changes little enough; I still won't sire one myself."

Jaime caught Lady Sansa's pained glance at her cousin. He knew why the so-called Bastard of Winterfell was so opposed to fathering bastards; she had worn the Tully trout sigil, kidnapped Tyrion, and disliked Jaime almost as much as the king seated next to him.

"An admirable sentiment," he said lightly. "Your uncle would be proud, I'm sure. In fact, your father would be as well. But as you said, I didn't come here to reminisce about Prince Rhaegar, though I knew him better than anyone in this castle. Now that you've confessed all and retained your crown, what is to become of me, your grace?"

Jon Snow tapped his gloved hand absently against the table.

"You did not keep your oath to my aunt," he thought aloud, "but you sent Lady Brienne in your stead. That was well done, in the end. I ought to send you to find Arya, but she's more likely to kill you than follow you home," he added, a tiny smirk adorning his solemn face.

The King in the North shrugged inelegantly. "If you truly wish to go to the Wall with your men, be my guest. I don't suppose you brought a Valyrian steel weapon?"

Jaime blinked at the change in questioning. "I did."

"Father's sword," muttered his brother's former wife.

Jaime admitted this with a nod. "Half of it, anyway. Ice will protect the North once more. I hope that comforts you."

"It's small consolation for everything your family did to mine— _both_ of mine—but I will take it."

Jon Snow changed the subject before Lady Sansa could object.

"Now, the men leaving today will garrison six of the empty forts along the western Wall," he told Jaime. "You and your men may choose a fort or two along the other side, between Castle Black and Eastwatch. If you agree, I will send a raven to Lord Commander Tollett."

The king stood quickly, energetically as a man of his tender years ought, and walked to the bookcase against the far wall. After digging through some old, dusty scrolls, he removed a small box and the scroll he wanted and returned to the table, unrolling what turned out to be a map of the Wall and its surrounding territories, the Gift and the New Gift. The box held markers, such as battle commanders used to mark troop positions.

"The Night's Watch holds these three forts, barely," King Aemon said, placing plain black markers on the Shadow Tower, Castle Black, and Eastwatch. "While I was commander, I sent small groups of men, mostly stewards and builders, to garrison these," he went on, placing smaller tokens on Westwatch-by-the-Bridge, the Nightfort, Queensgate, and Woodswatch-by-the-Pool. "Lord Wull is taking full garrisons of free folk and Northmen for each of these." He added six red tokens to the western forts from Sentinel Stand to Deep Lake, skipping over the Nightfort.

"You may choose any of the empty or undermanned castles," he offered Jaime. "I'd given Oakenshield to Tormund, and Long Barrow to the spearwives, but they followed me to Winterfell for the battle against the Boltons. Those castles are empty again."

Jaime knew enough about the Watch to know that none of them would be comfortable, and some not even habitable.

"Which fort is in the best condition? I brought no stonemasons or woodworkers, just soldiers."

The king pointed to Rimegate and Woodswatch with a black-gloved finger.

"Very well, I'll take them to Rimegate, if it please your grace."

"Good. Our people are very sparse along that part of the Wall. Edd will send a few brothers to show you the ropes, I'm sure. I'll ask him to send Satin with them; he was my steward until the mutiny, and he knew all the plans I had for these castles."

"How is the Kingsroad north of Winterfell?" asked Jaime, already planning the journey in his mind.

"Little more than a dirt track, I'm afraid," answered Aemon. "A blizzard at the wrong time will make it impassable for weeks."

Lady Sansa winced and closed her eyes. She looked to be in pain.

"Jon, is it truly so bad?" she asked in a small voice.

"Yes, of course. You must not remember much from our ride south, since you slept most of the way. It's winter in the North, and no road is certain," her cousin answered, then froze. "Oh, Sans—"

"Bran survived his fall and the sacking of Winterfell; we cannot lose him to the _cold_ of all things! We are Starks!" Sansa cried, interrupting her king.

Jaime's meal turned to ashes in his mouth.

"Your brother is alive?" he asked, sure he must have heard wrong. His voice sounded unsteady even to his own ears. "The crippled one?"

"Yes, we received word from Castle Black that he's there," the king answered, sounding as close to happy as Jaime had ever seen him. "We're sending men to bring him home tomorrow, but they'll have to brave the Kingsroad."

Jaime's stomach churned. It was all over. His half-formed, unnamed quest to salvage his honor and die with dignity would be over the second that boy appeared, and pointed an accusing finger at the man who had thrown him from a tower. They wouldn't just behead him; Rhaegar's son would have him hanged, drawn, and quartered, and feed his remains to the wolves. And he would _deserve_ it.

"Who is fetching him?" Jaime asked at last.

"Lady Mormont and Lord Royce offered some men, and Lady Brienne will choose from among the Wintersguard. I wouldn't be surprised if she chose herself and Pod as part of the rescue party," the King in the North told him, unaware of Jaime's inner turmoil. "Why? Do you mean to follow them north? It would be a good idea; none of you southrons are familiar with the road, after all."

He really had no idea. Jaime almost laughed, but the shame and dread he felt were too much to allow it. He wished he had not eaten so much.

"Oh, I'm sure the wench will be first in line to rescue another Stark," he said, failing to speak with his usual flippant tone. Luckily, the king and his cousin were too preoccupied to notice. "I'd expect nothing less from her. If that's all, your grace, I will prepare my men to depart on the morrow. I only hope the Northmen let us pass unmolested."

"It _is_ difficult to tell friends from foes these days, especially when they ride up wearing Lannister armor," King Aemon said, his lips twitching as though he'd hidden a smile. "I'll do you a favor, Ser Jaime. Since you're riding to the defense of the Wall, I will give you my personal banner for your standard-bearer to carry. A gray direwolf would be suspicious; you might have stolen it from one of Robb's battlefields easily enough. But the white direwolf is new, and any northman you come across will know you ride under my authority."

Jaime thanked him with all the good manners he could muster, and fled as soon as he could excuse himself. Under his false golden hand, his missing fingers throbbed.

He had to find Brienne.

Knowing she would be leaving on the morrow, Jaime raced to the stables. There he found the woman, supervising Pod as he packed her saddlebags. Five of the Wintersguard were with her, packing their own belongings for the journey. They looked like ducklings beside their blonde giantess of a mother.

"Lady Commander, may I have a word?" he asked politely, the title foreign but not unpleasant on his tongue.

She stood, bracing her hands on her muscled thighs and pushing up. Bright blue eyes met his own.

"What is it, Ser Jaime?"

Jaime led her outside, where the fresh snow muffled their steps.

"I hear you're going to Castle Black to find Brandon Stark," he said, watching her carefully.

"I am," she replied easily. It was shocking to find her so comfortable in her own skin; the North had been good to her. "As a member of the Wintersguard, Prince Brandon is under my protection, and I've traveled to the Wall before."

"King Jon has given me and my men leave to go north under his own banner, and we will," Jaime explained, "but he doesn't know what I did. The second that boy sees me, or talks to his royal cousin, my life is forfeit."

Brienne's blue eyes widened in understanding.

"He might not remember," she offered weakly. "He didn't when he first woke."

"But he might do," Jaime argued, shivering in the cold. He couldn't look in her eyes for long; they were too guileless.

"Ser Jaime," she said slowly, softly. "You are not the same man who hurt that boy, all those years ago. I will testify of it to the king, if I must."

Jaime snorted, finally looking up. "Would you thwart justice, then? I hear you chased Stannis into the woods to avenge Renly's murder; what's to stop the Starks from getting _their_ vengeance? Do theft or murder become less severe if years pass between the crime and the sentence?"

The wench said nothing, but her eyes spoke loudly enough.

"Perhaps I am merely trying to escape an inescapable fate," Jaime said, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "My father is dead, Uncle Kevan is dead, the children are dead, my brother is a murderer, and my sister is mad. I have nowhere left to run. It is time to act like a Lannister and pay my debt, even if it means dying in disgrace."

"I _cannot_ believe they will order your death," Brienne protested, and her voice caught. For a moment, Jaime thought she would weep for him. The notion was oddly touching.

"I would have liked to die saving the realm from ice monsters, just as I once saved the realm from wildfire," he confessed, feeling wistful but resigned. "It would have been a poetic end for me, worthy of at least one song, I'd wager."

"You may yet, Ser Jaime," his companion answered softly. "Don't give up now."

"My men and I will follow you north," Jaime told her firmly. "Brandon Stark and I will meet again, and as Wintersguard, the prince will order you to seize me. Seize me you must, if you wish to keep your vow to the King in the North. And I've done enough oathbreaking for us both, don't you think?"

He paused, looking around the yard. Though it was barely after noon, the departure of Lord Wull's men had left Winterfell quieter than Jaime had ever seen it. It was as pretty as a picture, but Jaime was in no mood to appreciate the sight.

"Now is not the time to hope, Brienne. I am only sorry that the duty will fall to you; the king told me that northern lords dispense their own justice, but thanks to my actions, Brandon Stark cannot even stand, much less cut off my head. You must be his sword arm when the time comes, and let no one doubt your loyalty. I will trust you and your Oathkeeper to make my end swift."

A fat tear trickled down Brienne's ruined cheek. The maid would never be pretty, but no fairer woman had ever inspired him to honorable deeds like this one. When she looked at him with those honest blue eyes, Jaime felt like the Dragonknight, not the Kingslayer. Mayhaps it was the icy cold muddling his wits, but now he understood Jon Targaryen a bit better. As the last dragon prince had faced his council of Northmen with unflinching courage, so would Jaime face his death sentence from the boy he had crippled.

"I must tell my men to prepare," he said, willing his legs to move before he went completely mad and kissed the wench. The urge was stronger every time he saw her.

"I look forward to seeing you take command of Vale knights, Northmen, and wildlings, my lady," Jaime added, smiling weakly for her benefit. "If the North had a Book of Brothers, your entry would be impressive indeed."

She said nothing, but looked at him, stricken. Snowflakes gathered in her blond hair and on her broad, fur-covered shoulders.

"I thank you for your time, Lady Commander. I will see you on the road."

He bowed, and left for the Lannister tents without another word.


	14. The Son's Song, Brienne I

**AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 2 - The Son's Song**

 **Brienne I**

As soon as the men had broken their fast the next morning, King Jon and Princess Sansa saw them all to the courtyard, where saddled horses awaited their arrival. A rough sled had been cobbled together and loaded with supplies for the journey. It would serve as Prince Bran's ride for the journey back.

"Lady Brienne, I wish you the best of luck," the king told her solemnly. "Bring our brother home."

"I will, your grace," she promised.

"Keep the fires going throughout the night," he advised her. "You may need them, should any wights appear."

"Surely they would not appear south of the Wall?" Brienne asked, startled.

The king grimaced. "Wights attacked Castle Black, once. We found the bodies on the other side and brought them there, but still—if there is any chance that the Wall's magic is weakening, be prepared. Fire for wights, and Valyrian steel or dragonglass for White Walkers."

"I have Oathkeeper at the ready, your grace," Brienne promised him, fingering the sword's hilt with gloved hands. "But my sword and Ser Jaime's are the only Valyrian steel weapons in our group."

"I know. There's no help for that now. Go, then, and keep your eyes open, all of you," King Jon ordered, pitching his voice so others could hear.

Brienne ordered Pod to mount up. Her squire did so at once, and a Stark man-at-arms handed him a gray direwolf banner, which the boy rested on his stirrup. Brienne vaulted onto her own horse, and the rest of her group followed. Jaime's men would ride behind them, but they were not her command, or her problem.

The Lady Commander gave the signal to move out, and they rode past the gates to the Kingsroad. The twelve Vale knights Lord Royce had chosen were younger, more serious, and less likely to make trouble for a female commander than others she'd seen. The Mormont men were a grim lot, dedicated to their duty and sparing no time for meaningless chatter. The Wintersguards Brienne had selected for the journey could not have been more different.

Dorren Blackmyre, the only crannogman, had been her first choice. He was excellent at blending into shadows, and handled daggers and darts better than swords. When the Wintersguard needed to make noise, she could go herself, or take some of the louder clansmen. When she needed stealth and cunning, she would send Dorren. He was also a fair hand with the horses, and eager to please.

Artos Norrey, called Young Artos though he was well over forty, had been her next choice. The man was large and intimidating—though not as tall as Brienne—and a fierce supporter of the Starks, as was his fellow clansman, Alyn Flint. Both men were serious and spoke little; she did not know much about them except for their loyalty, and their skill with bows and axes.

The remaining two were wildlings. Not the red-bearded bother; she'd left _him_ at Winterfell to protect King Jon and Princess Sansa, since the king seemed to trust him more than anyone. She had brought along a loud, black-haired spearwife named Geisa, and a man, Joren Stargazer. She had heard whispers that the man was a warg, though Brienne had no idea what sort of animals he might skinchange into. Still, one never knew when such a skill might be useful.

The day was fiercely cold, but the sky stayed clear. On the first night, Brienne halted her group at suppertime, and set the men to build three fires. The two wildlings set to work at once, knowing how important the fire was. The Vale knights were more skeptical.

"My lady, we are exhausted from the day's ride," complained Maren Belmore. "Why waste more of our energy cutting wood at this hour?"

"King's orders, ser," Brienne replied briskly. "Fire is our best defense against wights, should any appear."

The younger Templeton knight next to him snorted, but hid his reaction when Brienne turned to glare at him.

"Move. Now," she commanded.

To her surprise, they obeyed without further comment. They had just sat around the new fires, warming their hands with hot bowls of stew, when the Lannisters caught up, led by Jaime Lannister. Once they had dismounted beside the road, just behind Brienne's group, she heard Jaime ordering them to set up camp. The red tents looked ridiculously garish against the white snow and dull brown wood of the winter forest.

"Well, fancy meeting you all again," called a cheerful voice. Ser Bronn hailed the wildlings, and was promptly invited to join them. It was odd to see a southron so comfortable with them, though Brienne supposed they'd have more in common with a rough-spoken sellsword than a highborn knight.

Brienne finished her stew, ordered Ser Selric to take the first watch, and went for a walk, needing to stretch her legs before sleeping.

It didn't take her long to cross into the Lannister camp, where the men sat around their own cookfires. Ser Jaime was not among them, but sat alone in the commander's tent. An untouched plate and mug lay on his cot.

"Are you well?" Brienne asked him.

"Oh, I am just fine," he replied dully. "I'm a condemned man headed to his death, Brienne. Don't ask me to be cheerful on the way there."

"It may not come to that," she pointed out again.

"I will not pin my hopes on a boy's mercy, not when I ruined his life. Leave me be, wench."

Brienne had not seen him so dejected since he'd lost his hand. He said nothing more, despite her efforts, and she left the tent shaking her head. It was an impossible situation; she'd never met anyone who so deserved and _didn't_ deserve his punishment at the same time.

* * *

Over the next few days, life on the road became routine. Brienne, her Wintersguard, knights, and Northmen would pack up and ride, stopping only to relieve themselves and to eat their noonday meal, and they'd meet the Lannister men in the evenings, when the second group reached their campsite. There was little interaction between the two groups, except for Bronn, Pod, and Brienne herself. The Vale knights had little in common with the wildlings or the Mormonts, except perhaps some First Men heritage, but they did not mingle with the westerlanders at all. For a side that had remained neutral throughout the war, they were far too suspicious of them.

When they were eight days away from Castle Black, Brienne's group set up camp as usual, and she sent a Mormont man named Leor to scout ahead. It had started to snow, and her men were having a difficult time lighting the fires. The westerlanders had fallen further behind, unused to the weather conditions.

"Could do with some of that magic fire the Mad Queen used in King's Landing," muttered Dorren, huffing in disgust as the wind put out his kindling. "My lady, would you mind—?"

"Not at all," Brienne replied, stepping between the snowy wind and the crannogman. Dorren took up his flint and steel again, and they fanned the tiny flames together. Slowly, the fire caught and grew.

Her men huddled closer to it than usual that night, listening to Young Artos' tales of the barrow kings and the marsh kings, all conquered by the Starks of old. Brienne was fascinated. Princess Sansa had told her weeks ago that she'd never paid much mind to northern tales, being so eager to escape to the south. Brienne suspected it was one of the many reasons why the Northmen had chosen her brother—cousin, rather—to rule them instead. But to her, a Stormlander, the old tales of the north were just as interesting, if not as full of courtly language.

"BOLTONS!"

Suddenly, Leor and his horse galloped into the campsite at full speed. "Milady," the man cried, eyes wild, "At least three dozen Boltons approach from the east!"

The camp jumped into action, with men dropping their ale and reaching for their swords, bows, and axes.

"If they're coming from the east," Alyn Flint thought aloud, "then they must have been hiding at Last Hearth. But the Umbers are dead," he concluded. "So who is sheltering these treacherous sons of whores?"

"Mayhaps they sacked the place and took it when they lost Winterfell?" offered one of the Vale knights.

"I don't know, but it ends today," Brienne promised them. "They are traitors and their lives are forfeit. Are they ahorse?"

"No, milady, they were on foot."

"Weapons at the ready, sers," she ordered. Princess Sansa had sent her away from the battle of Winterfell, but she would not fail her here.

They stood in a single file, Brienne, her squire, and her seven-and-twenty men. Oathkeeper shone red in the firelight, and no one spoke. It was deadly silent.

Suddenly, a shadow moved behind the sentinel tree in front of Brienne. She raised her sword, and the man in Bolton colors emerged, followed by his companions.

"What in the seven hells!" cried the knight of House Sunderland. A few of the men stepped back in horror.

The five men across from them had been Bolton men once, surely. Now, they gazed at Brandon Stark's rescuers with otherwordly blue eyes full of malevolence. Dried blood and filth dotted their clothing and faces.

"Wights!" shouted Brienne, realizing what they were from King Jon's council meetings. Freeing herself from her panicked paralysis, she lowered her sword and turned, seizing a branch from the fire. "Torches, _now_!"

Her men obeyed. There weren't enough branches for them all; the struggling fire had held on despite the snow, but it wasn't the roaring blaze they usually had.

"Double up, one torch, one bow!" Brienne ordered. "Fire arrows if you've a bow!"

Before she had uttered her last word, the wight in front had charged at Brienne, shrieking. The others followed it.

The Sunderland boy ran forward, swinging his makeshift torch wildly. "I'll distract it!" he cried, attacking the wight on the far left. "Emmon, Maren, get the torches!"

"Watch out!" Brienne cried, swinging her own branch at the wight nearest her. It shrieked and moved back, but not before kicking at her legs. Fortunately, the wight was shorter than Brienne, and skinnier besides. The kick caught the back of her left knee and her leg buckled, but she did not fall.

With a grunt of effort, the Lady Commander stabbed at the creature's eye with her torch. As it wailed, she pulled the branch free, and dragged it along the wight's neck and flailing hands, hoping the remains of its gambeson would catch fire under the plate. It did, finally. The wight went up in flames.

Next to her, Joren and Geisa had tackled a larger wight. Geisa had managed to pin it against a tree with her spear, while Joren scrambled to set it aflame. Behind them, Emmon Templeton and Maren Belmore were lighting and passing torches. The cookfire was dying under the fresh snow, however.

"We need more fire!" Brienne cried, choosing two of the Vale knights. "You, build up the fire, fast!"

They dropped their bows and obeyed, finally understanding the need. Meanwhile, the Mormonts on Brienne's right were burning the remaining wights. Before she could catch her breath, five monsters lay dead in the snow.

"How many did you see, Leor?" Brienne asked, her heart sinking into her boots.

"Three dozen or so, milady," he replied, gasping for breath.

Fourteen wights broke through the trees next, all wearing the flayed man sigil. The defenders were better prepared this time, with torches instead of branches snatched from the fire, but even the stoutest man felt terror at the sight of those cold blue eyes. To make things worse, they were still fighting the wights when reinforcements arrived, at least another dozen wights. Out of the corner of her eyes, Brienne saw the Templeton boy fall, a wight on top of him as the monster bit at his unprotected throat.

Filled with fury, Brienne skirted around Jonnel Lynderly, who was fighting a wight on his own, and attacked the creature that had killed Emmon Templeton. The young Vale knight's blood dripped down its rotting chin and beard. It was worse than anything she'd seen in the desecrated Riverlands. Though they were the worst possible examples of the species, at least the Bloody Mummers and the Mountain's Men were _human_ , and died as humans, pissing themselves in fear. This thing showed no fear, only a cold cruelty past all reason.

Her injured knee throbbed, and the exhaustion of the journey grated, but Brienne kept fighting, cutting off the sword-arm, and then thrusting Oathkeeper so hard into the wight's thigh that it fell backwards, leg bone shattered. Holding the thing's chest down with her foot, she dragged her torch to any unprotected skin or cloth she could reach. Its clothes and hair were wet from the snow, and not easy to burn.

Looking up, Brienne was surprised to see the Lannister men had joined the fight. Looking terrified, the westerlanders were shooting flaming arrows at the remaining wights, while her own men regrouped. She had lost Sers Emmon Templeton and Kyle Donniger, as well as a Mormont greybeard, Edwyle. Near the tree line, she could see three corpses in Lannister armor, surrounded by scorched wights. Several others were injured. Burning, arrow-studded corpses littered the clearing.

"My lady, are you alright?" cried Pod, running to her side. He still held his torch, and Brienne saw a long cut along the boy's left arm.

"I'm alright," she replied, hoarse. Had she been shouting? She could not recall.

Pod handed her a skin of wine, eager to return to his normal routine.

"Thank you," Brienne told him, watching the dead wight burn at last. "Any serious injuries?"

"That last Bolton whoreson broke my wrist," complained a Mormont boy, holding up his right hand for inspection.

"I must say, Lady Commander, we expected a more welcoming campsite," joked Jaime Lannister, appearing on her left side. Beneath the humor, she saw a hint of terror in his eyes. "Were those the White Walkers the valiant King in the North mentioned?"

"No," she replied, "those are their slaves. They're dead men that the White Walkers raised to fight for them."

Jaime swore. "And nothing stopped them but fire."

He looked up at the sky, and Brienne's eyes followed. The snow wouldn't let up anytime soon.

"Move under the trees!" he ordered his men. "And I want more fires! There could be more of those things!"

"My scout saw only these," Brienne informed him, "but it would do no harm to send more scouts."

The Kingslayer nodded, and picked two of his men to scout east and west. Brienne sent Dorren to scout the Kingsroad to the north, then paced restlessly around the camp.

"My lady, I brought my poultices," Young Artos offered. "I can tend to our wounded."

"Good, please do so," she replied, relieved. When she'd volunteered for this mission, she had not thought of taking the Starks' borrowed maester, and she had no wildling woodswitch or healer with her. Only now did she see the folly of it. She'd never expected the Kingsroad to be this dangerous! A bandit or two, perhaps, but the undead?

"How is your leg, my lady?"

Brienne looked down. She'd been limping noticeably since the wight had kicked her knee, and Artos had clearly noticed. Her armor had protected her from other injuries, however.

"It's nothing, Artos," she assured him. "A kick. It will bruise and swell, nothing more. I'll sit for a spell, until Dorren returns."

She sat on the trunk that held their cooking gear, staring into the flames. She felt at least forty years old. To her right, Artos went from man to man, bandaging cuts and applying poultices.

"I never believed in Others and wights, you know," Jaime spoke up suddenly, squeezing onto the trunk to her left. "I didn't hear much of it while I was the Starks' prisoner, but when I returned to King's Landing? I thought the men of the Watch were taking us for fools, mayhaps distracting us to help the North."

Brienne snorted. "You don't know the Northmen very well, then," she answered. "If Jeor Mormont was anything like his great-niece, he meant every word he penned."

She paused. "If you didn't believe in this, why did you come?"

"I thought the Northmen were scheming," he replied, gazing at her meaningfully, but Brienne didn't understand. "Then you told me that they were real. You're the most honest person I know. If _you_ say wights exist, then they must exist...and tonight has proven us both right."

Brienne felt oddly flattered. In this world of corruption, honesty was usually hurled as an insult. She'd heard the Lannister opinion of Honorable Ned Stark, and knew that her own reputation was similar. But to her, it would never be anything other than a compliment.

They sat in a companionable silence. Eventually, Jaime got bored and reached for his sword, Widow's Wail. Holding it in place with his golden hand, he cleaned the wight blood and guts from the shining blade, and Brienne did the same with Oathkeeper. Side by side, they cleaned the Valyrian steel blades free of the filth of battle, then shared the remains of Brienne's wineskin.

"Well, that was an interesting night, and no mistake," Bronn said, appearing behind them. "It's nice to know my wildling friends were not pulling my leg. Though of course, that means they're all dead now," he realized, frowning.

"I'm sorry," Brienne told him sincerely.

"Eh," the sellsword shrugged. "Friend is a relative term. A few of them tried to eat me."

Wine flew everywhere as Jaime choked. " _What?_ "

Bronn grinned wickedly. "You didn't know? Some wildling tribes are cannibals."

"I don't believe it," he said, green eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"He tells it true," said Geisa the spearwife, appearing with a bandage around her forehead. "The men of Skagos will eat careless sailors that wander too close to their island, and the ice river clans went to war every few years. The losers became supper for the winners."

"Why would you go there, Bronn?" asked Jaime, aghast.

"Because I was paid to," the sellsword answered simply. "The more dangerous the job, the better it pays." He shrugged again, and raised an eyebrow at Jaime. "Are you regretting your trip to the north, Ser?"

"Every second of every day," he muttered at last, draining the skin. "And yet, I refuse to leave. I suppose I've gone as mad as my dear sister."

The Kingslayer stood, groaning as he stretched his back and arms.

"I'm going to bed. Wake me if the dead return."

Brienne took one last look around the camp. The Mormont men, bandaged and bolstered with some ale, had taken on the task of burning the dead. Alyn and two Lannisters had taken the watch, and the fires were as high as they could be for now. The scouts had not yet returned, but she knew her men would wake her if anything went amiss.

She decided to follow Jaime's example. Brienne found a quiet corner under a thick evergreen, where the branches would block most of the snow, and placed her bedroll near the trunk. She was too tired to bother with her tent. Princess Sansa had made her the cloak she wore, declaring that her sworn shield deserved to be warm as she fulfilled her duties. The thick, fur-lined cloak came in handy now, as Brienne covered herself up and went to sleep.

* * *

Eight days later, Brienne breathed a sigh of relief as she saw the familiar sight of Castle Black. Her men and Jaime's had spent a tense week, watching every shadow in case new wights appeared. They'd been lucky, however; the eight-and-thirty Boltons they had killed and burned were the only men, living or dead, they'd seen on the road. Brienne and Jaime had decided they were survivors of the Battle of Winterfell, cravens that had run away and died of exposure or from their battle wounds.

After their brush with the wights, Jaime had returned to his old self. Instead of moping in his tent, thinking far too much of his future death and past sins, he had become a man with a purpose. He was learning all he could from Brienne's men about the threat beyond the Wall, and sparring with Bronn during the noonday meals. For their safety, Jaime had suggested traveling together, instead of meeting only at night, and Brienne had agreed. Though her men and his were not friends, fighting the undead together had erased some of the mistrust.

"Lady Commander Brienne," hailed the dour-faced Edd Tollett. Brienne could see why the men of the Watch called him Dolorous Edd. "Welcome to Castle Black, once more. And Ser Jaime Lannister," the man went on. "When Jon wrote to say you were coming, I thought he was japing."

"I'm sorry to spoil a good joke," Ser Jaime replied. "But alas, I came to help the Watch."

"Mighty kind of you," Edd said dubiously. "If I were you I'd run to Dorne or the Summer Isles, but suit yourself. Who could resist the biting cold, uncomfortable beds, and the prunes stuffed into every meal?"

Brienne saw that Jaime could not tell if Edd was in earnest or having a laugh at his expense, but she had more important matters to discuss.

"Lord Commander, we came across eight-and-thirty wights on our way here."

Edd Tollett swallowed hard. "South of the Wall?"

"Yes, they attacked us near the Last River. They wore Bolton armor, so they did not come from beyond the Wall; they were Northmen turned into wights."

The Lord Commander swore. "I suppose I should thank you for killing them. King Jon will have to tell every house to burn every dead man, woman, and child from here to the Neck, unless they want more undead Northmen attacking live ones."

He sighed. "If that happens, we're deader than dead. We can't defend Castle Black if we're attacked from the south. Seven hells, we can barely defend it from the north, and that's with a gigantic wall!"

Before he despaired more, Brienne changed the subject.

"Where is Brandon Stark, Lord Tollett?"

"He and Lady Meera are in the King's Tower," he replied, pointing.

"I'll see him at once, if you'll pardon me," she answered.

She dashed up the tower. Brienne knew from her previous visit that this was the tower reserved for important guests, so it was only fitting that Prince Brandon should be housed here. She wondered who had carried the poor boy up these stairs.

She knew she had reached the correct door when she spotted a small woman, brown-haired and green-eyed, guarding a particular room. Brienne had seen that shade of green only once, on Lord Howland's face.

"Lady Meera?" she asked, and the girl nodded. "I'm Brienne of Tarth, Commander of the Wintersguard."

Meera smiled. "We've been expecting you. Please," she added, opening the door. "Come in."

Brienne stepped into the bedchamber. Brandon Stark lay on a heavy bed, which had been pushed close to the fire. He looked like his mother and sister, all Tully, but his eyes were much older than Sansa's, or even Brienne's.

"Lady Brienne," he said, smiling. "Thank you for coming."

"It was my honor, your grace," she replied. "I promised your mother I'd get your sisters home. If she had known you were alive, she would have asked me to protect you also."

"Sansa was lucky to have you," he told her. "You are a true knight in deeds, if not in name."

Brienne smiled. She'd never been an object of admiration for little boys, but it was much nicer than the usual derision.

"I understand Ser Jaime Lannister came with you," he said, and her smile froze. "I'd like to speak with him."

"I will fetch him at once, your grace," Brienne promised, her heart sinking.

She left the tower, passing Meera on the way down. Her men and the Lannister men had gone to the common hall to warm up and drink something, but two westerlanders remained out-of-doors, watching the pitiful remainder of the Watch in the training yard. As she approached, Brienne heard Bronn's honest but painful commentary.

"Ohh, that one's holding his sword like a meat cleaver," groaned the sellsword. "Watch 'im now, he's about to break the little fella's fingers."

There was a cry of pain from the group of trainees, but Brienne did not turn to look.

"If _they_ are what guards the realm from the wights and White Walkers, Seven, R'hllor, and old gods help us, because we're well and truly fu—"

"Ser Jaime," Brienne called, interrupting the one-sided conversation. Jaime turned abruptly.

"What is it, Brienne?"

"Prince Brandon wishes to see you," she said, watching him carefully. She knew he would hear the sympathy in her voice. She'd prayed to the Seven for the Stark boy to be merciful, but only time would tell if they'd listened. Brienne wished she knew how to pray to the old gods of the North; surely they had more power in this cold land than the Andal gods of the south.

"So be it," the Kingslayer answered. He followed her silently, making almost no noise as they traversed the frozen ground. She wished he'd jape or call her wench again; _anything_ was better than a Jaime preparing to die.

When she stopped outside the door to Bran's quarters, Jaime looked at her seriously. "Remember what I said," he told her, green eyes piercing her own. "Do not hesitate to follow your orders, my lady."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and opened the door, letting them both in. Brandon Stark sat where she'd left him, on his bed near the fire. Knowing her duty, Brienne closed the door and stood against the wall, hand on her sword hilt though she knew it was unnecessary; Jaime meant the child no harm anymore.

"You asked for me, your grace?" Jaime asked the boy.

"Ser Jaime Lannister," sighed Prince Bran. "I've wanted to talk to you for some time."

The Kingslayer flinched.

"All my life, I wanted to be a knight of the Kingsguard," the boy said, watching the man with Tully blue eyes too old for his boyish face. "When Father became Hand of the King, I was to go south with him and squire for a knight, maybe even Ser Barristan. But you stopped that from happening."

"I am sorry," Jaime told him, almost whispering. He sounded broken.

"If I had gone to King's Landing with Father, I would have died when Lannister men attacked the Tower of the Hand," Brandon continued calmly. "Or I might be there still, as your sister's prisoner. You tried to kill me, and by so doing, you saved my life."

Jaime's blond head rose. He watched the boy in confusion.

"I cannot forgive you for throwing me from the tower, Ser Jaime," the prince clarified.

"I would not ask you to, your grace," Jaime interrupted hastily, his voice breaking. "It was unforgivable and I know it."

"But the truth is that you saved me. Because I was crippled, I traveled north to meet the last greenseer, and became a greenseer myself. You would not believe the things I've seen through the weirwoods," he said, sounding ancient and eerie. Brienne shivered. "I saw the arrival of the First Men from Essos. I saw Aegon the Conqueror riding Balerion the Black Dread. I saw my grandfather burning to death in the Red Keep. I saw the Mad King shouting _burn them all_. I saw my father and Howland Reed fighting the Kingsguard, and my cousin's birth in a Dornish tower."

Jaime's mouth had dropped open. Brienne knew she looked no better.

"I saw _you_ , Ser Jaime. I saw you when you saved King's Landing from the pyromancers, and I saw you stabbing the king in the back. I saw you protecting Lady Brienne in the Riverlands, and taking Riverrun without bloodshed. I saw you and Lady Brienne fighting wights on the Kingsroad."

He paused, looking at Jaime's face. "You're not the same man you were when King Robert came to Winterfell."

"He really isn't, your grace," Brienne said, seizing her chance to stand up for Jaime. "He has paid for his mistakes, and done a lot of good in the world since then."

"If I wanted revenge, I could have your head," the boy said, and Jaime nodded silently. "Neither Jon nor Sansa would deny me if they knew what you'd done. I don't want revenge, though. I want the Others defeated, and I saw you fighting them. That means that you must live, no matter what I might think of it."

Jaime Lannister took a deep breath that sounded like a sob.

"You may get your wish after all, ser," the prince said, blue eyes unblinking as he stared at Jaime.

To her shock, Brienne realized that the boy had somehow known Jaime's wish of dying in battle against the Others, a confession he'd made at Winterfell. Jaime looked equally awestruck.

"Yes, I saw you through the weirwoods," Brandon Stark admitted, looking at Brienne. "When I saw Lannisters heading toward Winterfell, I had to see what you were up to. I was pleasantly surprised."

"So you're just...letting me go?" the Kingslayer asked, disbelief oozing out of every word.

Prince Brandon nodded. "You have work to do at the Wall, ser. That doesn't mean I like you, or that I forgive you, but I will not risk the safety of my family—and the whole of the North—just to punish you for crippling me."

Brienne could have wept from relief.

"You have something that belongs to the Lord of Winterfell, however," the boy said suddenly. "I propose a trade."

He took and unwrapped a bundle that lay beside his legs, buried in faded black cloth. Brienne's mouth fell open as she saw the magnificent swords within.

"Dark Sister and Blackfyre," Brandon said needlessly. The golden dragons and rubies on the pommels glinted in the firelight, as did the Valyrian steel blades. "Brynden Rivers brought them north when he joined the Night's Watch. I will give you one of these in exchange for my father's sword."

For a minute, no one spoke.

"Blackfyre is a hand-and-a-halfer, your grace," Ser Jaime objected, almost reverently. "Even if I wished to, I cannot wield it now." He raised his golden hand so the Stark boy could see.

"It is not meant for you," the boy replied, his blue eyes honest. "This is the sword of the Targaryen kings. It belongs to Jon."

"Then you mean to give me Dark Sister?" asked Jaime, and Brienne caught the awe in his tone.

Prince Bran nodded. "I will take my father's sword home to Winterfell, and you will keep Dark Sister at the Wall once more, where she is badly needed."

Brienne removed Oathkeeper from her belt, hesitating. The sword had become an extension of herself after all this time, and she felt naked without it. Wordlessly, she offered it to the boy.

"Not yet, Lady Brienne," he said, shaking his head gently. "The two halves of Ice must come together, but not now. And you may need it on the journey to Winterfell."

Jaime gave the boy Widow's Wail, accepting Dark Sister in exchange. He looked like a young squire, open-mouthed as he examined the legendary sword from every angle. Brienne could not blame him.

"I have nothing further to say," Brandon Stark told them. "Go, Ser Jaime, and protect the Wall as long as you can. Lady Brienne, I'm going to sleep now. Please wake me when it's time to leave tomorrow."

"Very well, your grace," she replied, then ushered Jaime out of the room and shut the door. Dorren Blackmyre stood nearby, warming his hands by a small fire. Brienne relayed their prince's instructions, and watched with satisfaction when the smallest Wintersguard took up his post outside Brandon's chamber, daggers at the ready. No one would hurt the boy on the Lady Commander's watch, and Lady Meera had earned a break from her duties.

"Am I awake, Brienne?" murmured Jaime, following her down the stairs and out of the tower. "I could have sworn that Brandon Stark just spared my life, _and_ gave me the sword of Aemon the Dragonknight and Visenya Targaryen. I must have died and not realized it."

Brienne could not help herself. She took his left hand and squeezed it gently. "You live, Ser Jaime, and you will live a while yet. You heard the prince; you have a Wall to defend, and a legendary sword to live up to."

His green eyes were wet with unshed tears. "I was prepared to die today. I really was."

She knew it was true. He'd spent at least half of their journey north thinking of his death. But before Brienne could answer, a gust of icy wind rattled her weary bones. Jaime shivered violently.

"Come, you need a warmer cloak," she said gently. "Let's find a steward."

Ten minutes later, Jaime Lannister stepped out of his temporary chambers, with warm black clothing peeking out from underneath his armor, and a heavy, hooded black cloak over that.

"I've traded my white cloak for a black one," he japed, all traces of weeping gone. "My father would roll over in his grave if he could see this."

"Let him," Brienne replied, shrugging. "The black suits you, and it will keep you warm."

"Oh?" Jaime Lannister raised an eyebrow. "I know something that would keep me warmer," he said teasingly, and Brienne's face heated instantly.

"Do not mock me, Kingslayer," she said seriously.

"Who is mocking?" he answered, sounding as innocent as he was capable. "I meant every word. You're my favorite wench at the Wall, you know, and mayhaps in the whole of the North."

There was no doubt about it: her face must be as crimson as the Targaryen dragon by now.

"Will you keep me warm before you go back to Winterfell, Brienne?" Jaime asked her with a grin. If she hadn't known any better, she would have thought him in earnest.

"If it's warmth you want, I'm sure Mole's Town has whores or wildling women to suit your tastes," she told him, unable to keep the disgust from her voice.

Jaime's expression turned gentle. "Will Mole's Town have a stubborn giantess with more honor than sense, and eyes as blue as the sea of her homeland?"

Brienne froze. Before she could recover her wits and flee, Jaime Lannister stepped inches away from her, looking at her face with fond amusement.

"Will they have a Lady Commander who can best me with a sword?"

"Is that what you want?" Brienne said shakily, the words catching in her throat.

Two hands, one gold and one flesh, wrapped around her armored waist, pulling her to Jaime. He tilted his face up to hers, and kissed her as gently as a knight from a song. It was nothing like the forceful kiss Owen Inchfield had given her, so long ago, before she'd pushed him into a campfire.

When he pulled away, they were both breathless. Just as Jaime had struggled with disbelief earlier, Brienne could not believe this was happening. She pinched her arm hard enough to bruise.

"I'm off to Rimegate tomorrow," Jaime finally said, "but I will not join the Night's Watch. Should I survive this war against ice monsters and dragons, I would be happy to win glory, hold lands, and father children...with _you_ , if you'll have me."

A warm, indescribable feeling filled Brienne. For the first time in her life, a man had complimented her, and she _believed_ him. She'd always known she was undesirable; she was too tall, too freckled, too ungainly, and too good at manly arts instead of needlework, music, and looking pretty, but she had somehow caught the heart of this irritating, confusing, wonderful man.

"I'd like that," she confessed shyly. "But I vowed that I would not marry a man unless he could best me in a fight."

"Have pity on a one-handed old swordsman, wench" Jaime Lannister breathed. "What if you tie your right hand behind your back before we spar?"

Brienne took a moment to consider the request. "That seems fair."

Jaime kissed her again. "Good. It's a deal."

She knew her smile was too large and unattractive; she'd been told so several times. But now, in Jaime's arms, she could not stop herself from smiling broadly. He didn't seem to mind her crooked teeth.

"I've seduced the Lady Commander," he teased. "That thought will keep me warm until I see you again. Someday there may be a song about us: the disgraced Kingsguard and the valiant Wintersguard, who started off as enemies and died as lovers, in each other's arms."

Brienne had thought she could not blush any redder. She'd been wrong.

"You'll have time to compose the song yourself, while you keep watch atop the Wall. For now, our duties await, ser,"

And, still smiling and red as the setting sun, she returned to her chamber. If the Lannister men and Night's Watchmen gave her odd looks, she pretended not to notice.

The next morning, two groups rode out of Castle Black. Brienne led one group south, back down the Kingsroad to Winterfell, with Lady Meera Reed and Prince Brandon Stark riding the sled they'd brought for them. Two sturdy garrons dragged it along the fresh snow, and Mormont men, Vale knights, and the Wintersguard surrounded it. The gray direwolf of House Stark and the white direwolf of King Jon fluttered above their heads.

The other group wore Night's Watch black over Lannister armor. Before they left the road, Jaime Lannister turned, and gave the Lady Commander a salute and a cheeky grin. Then the westerlanders headed east, and Brienne lost sight of them. Instinctively, Brienne reached for the pommel of Oathkeeper, wanting to touch something of Jaime's.

She dearly hoped she would see Jaime again, alive and busy restoring his honor through bravery against the wights and White Walkers. He owed her a sparring match, and more besides.

"Lady Commander?" called Young Artos, watching her with a puzzled frown.

Brienne shook her head to clear it, and gave the order to move forward. If the gods were good, the journey to Winterfell would be dull and peaceful, nothing like the journey north had been. Either way, she would take Brandon Stark home.

* * *

 _And that's the end of Part II! Will Jaime get his heroic death, or live to see Brienne again? You'll have to read on and find out; he's now on the front lines of the Great War, like our friends in the Brotherhood Without Banners, Jon's Northmen, and the remainder of the Night's Watch under Edd. Why are there wights south of the Wall? You'll find out in Part IV. What's Bran going to do with the two halves of Ice? Are any of these swords Lightbringer? You'll have to keep reading._

 _In Part III, we will continue to ignore Season 7 of the show, as all our favorite characters deal with the past_ — _their guilt, their shame, their nightmares, and their grief. Arya and Daenerys will make their first appearances in this story, and Brandon Stark will arrive at home at long last._

 _As always, thank you for reading! Did you love it? A kind review could fuel my next writing binge! Hate it? Flames will be used for s'mores. For now, I bid you good fortune in the off-season to come._


	15. Banishing Nightmares, Jon VI

**AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 3 - Banishing Nightmares**

 _Sansa and Jon, haunted by their demons, band together to ease their troubled sleep. With Sansa's help, Jon begins to accept at least a small part of his Targaryen heritage. Meanwhile, Petyr Baelish, one-armed, ill, and desperate to escape the Starks, runs into the most dangerous Stark of all. Bran and Meera reach Winterfell at last, and the Bolton captives in the Dreadfort come home._

 **Jon VI**

Jon woke up screaming. It wasn't a rare occurrence. Some nights, he dreamed of Hardhome, and the cold blue eyes that followed his every move. Other nights, he dreamed of knives in the dark, or the crypts, or poor Rickon falling onto the snow, pierced by the Bolton bastard's arrow. Tonight, he'd dreamed of Ygritte.

His chamber was dark, and the fire had died at least an hour ago. He should have been shivering, but since his death and rebirth, he did not feel the cold as much as he used to. Perhaps it was only his imagination, or the distance between him and the Wall, but Jon seemed to burn with an inner fire these days, and it _terrified_ him. He wasn't sure if that was his dragon blood, awakened by the Red Witch, or the Lord of Light's fire. If the latter, he wanted it gone, but he knew not how to get rid of it.

Well, he had _one_ idea, but he wouldn't do that to Sansa. He'd promised to protect her; he'd not abandon her now, nor Bran and Arya.

Thinking of Sansa reminded him of the promise he'd made some time ago, when they'd confessed to each other that they rarely slept. Jon had been reluctant to take her up on it even then, but now? A brother crawling into his grown sister's bed was odd enough; a male _cousin_ doing so was even worse! Had it been Arya, he would have done it without a second thought, he admitted to himself, but Sansa was different; they'd never been close.

 _Promise me._

He got out of bed with a sigh, and slipped his stockinged feet into boots. Sansa was close enough to have heard his screams; he'd given her the Lord's Chamber, and at her insistence and that of the Wintersguard, he'd moved into Sansa's old room, three doors away. Bran's and Arya's rooms awaited their return, and Robb's had lain empty since the death of Ramsay Bolton. Jon needed no one to tell him where the Bastard of Bolton had violated Sansa, seeing how she shuddered when she walked past the door. One of these days, he'd take everything the bastard had touched in that room and start a bonfire outside. He was sure Robb would have approved.

Jon crossed the hallway quietly. He could see Tormund and Suregg standing guard at the head of the stairs, their backs facing Jon and Sansa's rooms, and the dead end hallway beyond. He slipped into the Lord's Chamber without a sound, and closed the heavy door carefully. When he looked towards the bed, he met his sister's—cousin's—blue eyes.

"Have you finally remembered your promise?" she asked, sounding vaguely amused.

"I never forgot," Jon answered honestly. "But I'm your cousin now, and—"

"And nothing," Sansa interrupted, scooting over to make room on the bed. "You were always my cousin, even if we didn't know it. Now get in here; it's too cold to be wandering about."

Despite himself, Jon approached the bed. "It's not right," he said softly.

"If I started a list of all the things that aren't right in this world, this wouldn't make the top five hundred," Sansa insisted, busily adjusting pillows. "My virtue—what's left of it, anyway—is safer with you here than without you, Jon."

Jon removed his boots and got into bed, facing Sansa. "I wish you wouldn't say things like that. There's nothing wrong with your virtue."

She took his unburnt hand, and ran her thumb gently over his cold fingers.

"I dreamed of Father's death tonight. What was your nightmare about?"

"Ygritte," he admitted. "Only in my dream, I killed her."

Sansa rolled closer and embraced him, burrowing an arm under his torso.

"I've had those dreams often," Jon continued. It was easier to share secrets in the dark, when the other person couldn't see the shame and self-loathing on one's face. "Sometimes I dreamed that I'd killed Robb, or Arya, or Fath—Uncle Ned."

"You can still call him Father, you know," Sansa whispered. "He _was_ your father in every way that counts. I won't be selfish and keep him to myself."

"I hardly know who I am anymore, much less who my father was," Jon confessed, closing his stinging eyes in shame.

"You are the King in the North," Sansa replied. "The White Wolf; a warg and a hero. Your birth name doesn't change that."

"Does it not?" he asked softly. "Don't you think the lords will blame my Targaryen heritage every time I do something they dislike? That they'll start watching me for signs of madness, and wonder why they made me king instead of Bran?"

Sansa squeezed him tighter, and he wrapped his own arms around her. It wasn't fair to ask his cousin to be his rock, but that's what she'd become to him lately. The once spoiled, shallow Sansa had turned into the strongest woman he knew, and that was saying something; the women he knew included spearwives, a warrior woman from the Stormlands, and the force of nature that was Lyanna Mormont!

"If you can survive being killed and resurrected without going mad, and if I can survive Ramsay Bolton and being a Lannister hostage, you can survive being _the son of a Targaryen prince_ , no matter how awful it may seem." She grinned at him. "I have faith in you."

"When you put it like that, everything else sounds so trivial," Jon replied, kissing her forehead. "Thank you for putting me in my place so thoroughly."

"It was my pleasure. Good night, Jon," she whispered.

"Good night," Sansa."

It wasn't a good night, exactly, but it was an improvement. When Sansa jolted awake an hour later, shaking and pleading for Ramsay to leave her alone, Jon was there to embrace her, and whisper that she was safe, Ramsay was dead, and all was well. When Jon woke gasping for breath, clutching his chest and seeing knives in the darkness, Sansa was there to run gentle hands through his hair until he calmed. They were both broken, but willing to help one another heal.

After four nights of this new arrangement, Jon had a confession to make. They were abed in the near-darkness, with the fireplace crackling a few feet away.

"Remember when you left the solar to take supplies to the winter town this morning?"

"Hmm," Sansa murmured sleepily.

"While you were gone, Lord Cerwyn asked me when I would marry you off." Jon told her. "He might still be shaking in his boots after my response."

"Jon," his cousin sighed, now wide awake. "We knew it would happen eventually. You can't blame them for asking."

"I will _never_ marry you off against your will," he vowed seriously. "I hope I made that clear today. If you want to marry any of them, you're welcome to do so, but I will not _sell_ my only family for alliances or soldiers or whatever it may be."

He heard a sniffle from Sansa's side of the bed, and Jon panicked. "Sansa? What is it? Has anyone said anything—hurt you—in any way?"

She didn't answer except for a muffled _no_ and a sob.

"Sansa? Talk to me, please," Jon begged, trying to make out her expression.

"When Father told us we were leaving King's Landing," she told him finally, now crying harder, "he said he'd make me a match with a lord worthy of me, someone brave and gentle and strong. He said the betrothal to Joffrey had been a terrible mistake, and that Joff was _no Prince Aemon_."

"That's an understatement," Jon said savagely. "If we're comparing that smirking, cowardly, honorless sack of horseshit to any Targaryen it would be Aegon the Unworthy or Maegor the Cruel, not the greatest knight who ever lived."

"Don't you see?" Sansa asked, taking his hand. "Father _knew_ there was a true prince in Westeros, one who was exactly what he described, and his name was Aemon Targaryen. That's how highly he thought of _you_ , Jon."

Jon shook his head. "Sansa, I'm sure he meant the Dragonknight, not me."

"Are you?" she insisted. "I'm not so sure."

"I was meant to become another bastard of the Watch, nothing more," Jon told her firmly. "Father never expected King Robert to die so soon, and he would _never_ have rebelled against his old friend for my sake. But I won't let you become my Naerys, in any case," Jon promised her. "I know you girls found that story romantic, but it's awful. _I_ won't stand idly by as you marry an unworthy man, and stand back when he makes you miserable. You've had enough of that for a dozen lifetimes."

He felt Sansa's arms squeeze his middle. "And who is worthy of me, your grace?" she asked quietly.

Jon felt the answer was obvious. "Whoever _you_ judge worthy, of course," he answered, playing with the end of her long plait.

"I'd forgotten what good men were like, after living with monsters for so long," Sansa whispered into his shirt. "Thank you for reminding me, my Dragonknight."

Sansa had fallen asleep shortly after that, leaving Jon wide awake and thinking thoughts he'd never dared to ponder before. What _had_ his father planned for him? Going to the Wall had been Jon's decision, but what if he'd chosen to do something else? Would Eddard Stark _ever_ have told him what he was?

Unless his father had shared his plans with Uncle Benjen, Jon would never know. He didn't even know if Uncle Benjen knew who and what Jon was!

Sleep did not come easy to Jon that night, but for once, it was not because of nightmares.

A few days later, Sansa summoned Jon to the lord's solar after the evening meal. She was dressed in a plain green gown, and sitting comfortably by the fire, with Lyanna Stark's hope chest at her feet.

"Jon, come in," she greeted him, and nodded at the Wintersguards behind him. Tonight it was Larence Snow and Rickard Ashwood guarding Sansa, and Tormund and Lord Wull guarding Jon. He shut the door, then took the seat beside his cousin's.

"What's going on?" he asked curiously. "You're not usually so vague with your summons."

Sansa grinned. "I wasn't sure you'd come if you knew. But I thought we could use some help going to sleep."

Jon raised an eyebrow. They both slept poorly still, but better than they had before, when they'd each struggled through the long nights alone.

Before Jon could ask anything else, Sansa reached into the box and took out the silver harp that had been Rhaegar Targaryen's.

"Do you remember when I had high harp lessons?" she asked.

Jon nodded. Septa Mordane and Lady Catelyn had taught Sansa many ladylike arts, but he hadn't heard her play in years.

"I lost my harp when Father's men were killed," Sansa told him. "My harp was packed with my other things, and I never saw it again. One of Margaery Tyrell's cousins offered to teach me more, but once I'd been married to Tyrion, the Tyrells acted like I never existed," she confessed, angered by the old memories. "They were all so sweet when they thought they could marry me off to Willas, and once the North was out of their grasp, I became the outcast I was to everyone else."

"Sansa," Jon said sadly, "you needn't speak of it if you don't want to."

"I didn't mean to speak of King's Landing," she said, giving Jon a small smile. "I meant to offer to teach you."

"Teach me what, the harp?" cried Jon incredulously. It was such an odd, _frivolous_ thing to offer to a man like him, who had spent years in the enforced austerity of the Night's Watch.

"Your father was a famous player, was he not?" Sansa explained with a shrug. "And you have his talent for singing, if nothing else. Ser Jaime said you sound just like Prince Rhaegar. Mayhaps you have his talent for the harp as well, and it would relax us both to play before bed. You're working too hard, even for a King in the North. Now watch."

She started playing then, a slow, gentle melody that was almost a lullaby. It was quite soothing.

"Would you like to try?" she asked, holding out the dragon harp. "I just tuned it."

Jon removed his gloves, then took the harp with clumsy fingers. "I'll make a fool of myself."

"We all do, when we start," she answered encouragingly. "You can't play perfectly on your first try."

She was right, of course. Jon plucked gingerly at the strings, coaxing a discordant melody out of the old harp. Slowly, as his fingers learned the way, he started plucking the notes to _The Bear and the Maiden Fair._

"You might have inherited your father's skill after all," Sansa said delightedly. "It's supposed to be harder to learn as you age, but you're doing better than I did when I started."

"It's nothing _that_ impressive," Jon demurred. "I'm only playing a simple tune I already know. My father apparently composed long, tragic pieces that made all the maidens cry and lose their senses."

"Well, I'm no maiden, and I don't want to cry," Sansa told him, shrugging. "You're the Dragonknight to my not-Naerys; you're meant to make me laugh, Jon."

He frowned at her, unsure if she was serious. "I'm not sure how to do that with a harp. I've never been good with japes, either."

"Play whatever you like, then," his cousin decided. "If you don't feel like improvising, I can teach you to read music," she offered, showing him yellowed sheet music. "I found these in your room. They're from my lessons."

Jon had never learned to read music, for obvious reasons. The music teacher had been Septa Mordane, and the pious septa could not bear the thought of a bastard in the house. She had only ever addressed him when scolding him. Music was not a priority for boys, and doubly so for bastard boys.

"Perhaps later," Jon offered. Despite his doubts, he knew Sansa was only trying to help. He plucked at the harp a bit more, a slow tune appropriate for lulling children to sleep. Sansa watched him with a small smile, quite awake, so he supposed he'd failed.

"Your technique could use some work," she critiqued, stepping around him. From behind his chair, she leaned over and adjusted his grip on the delicate instrument, and turned the hand he was using to play. Jon caught the scent of winter roses as her auburn hair swung forward. "But you have a musician's instinct. I'm not sure what you were playing, but it sounded nice."

"I'm not sure, either," Jon admitted.

Instead of returning to her chair, Sansa sat on the old rug. It was a thing of beauty, made of squares of black, brown, gray, and white fur. Some long-dead Stark with a fondness for hunting had collected all of these pelts, and his wife had turned them into an enormous patchwork rug. With her toes pointed toward the fire, the rug underneath, and her warmest robe around her shoulders, Sansa looked perfectly comfortable leaning against Jon's chair.

Jon played his father's harp. There was no melody to follow, and no inspiration to guide him; he simply moved his hands back and forth, plucking gently until something resembling a song poured out. Sansa's eyes fluttered closed, and Jon kept playing absently. He thought of his mother, weeping because of a song she'd heard, and wondered if she would have wept openly, like Sansa, or hidden her tears and punched any brother who dared mock her, like Arya. After Howland Reed's story, Jon suspected the latter.

His eyes fell on Lyanna Stark's glory box, forgotten next to Sansa's empty chair. Someday soon he'd muster up his courage and open it, taking the time to read the papers in there. Sansa had seen a letter addressed to _him_ , and he would not be so craven as to ignore the last words his dying mother had penned. For now he kept playing, until a light snore from Sansa startled him into laughter.

"What?" she mumbled, blinking up at him through thick auburn eyelashes. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, Princess," Jon told her with a grin. "But your plan worked a little too well. You'll sleep better in your bed, don't you think?"

He offered Sansa a hand, and pulled her to feet. They left the solar together, Jon still carrying his father's favorite instrument. Once they'd bid their guards goodnight, Jon changed out of his leathers and joined his cousin, harp in hand. He'd keep it nearby, and if he or Sansa had nightmares tonight, he might soothe her—and himself—back into a more restful slumber.

* * *

 _Aaand off we go into Part III, a very character-focused calm before the next storm (of swords, ha)._

 _Next up: Arya makes her debut, as does Nymeria and the Riverlands wolf pack!_

 _Also, apologies for the long wait; I had a stash of chapters already formatted and such in my doc manager, and I ran out during my dead laptop debacle. Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming! Thank you for reading, as always._


	16. Banishing Nightmares, Arya I

**AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 3 - Banishing Nightmares**

 **Arya I**

Arya had learned much since King Robert had barged into her world, drunk and loud and unwelcome. Her training with Syrio had taught her to watch her surroundings—and men—and see them for what they were. Her days of servitude in Harrenhal had taught her the horrible things humans could do to each other, and when to keep silent despite the atrocities before her eyes. Her training with the Kindly Man had taught her how to listen and report, and how to infiltrate a place where she was a stranger. They, Jaqen, the Hound, and the Waif had taught her how to kill.

In her idle moments, Arya wondered if her masters would be proud of her achievements, or horrified by the monster they'd created.

Infiltrating the Twins had taken all of her talents. The naturally impatient Arya had forced herself to be still, to listen, and to wait. She'd worn the pretty face of a long-dead Westerosi girl to find work, knowing that old Walder Frey could not resist pretty wenches. The girl who had once been No One had swallowed her disgust and served the repulsive lecher for weeks, enduring his groping hands and lewd comments.

All the while, she had listened. House Frey was large and full of petty feuds, with brothers, nephews, grandchildren, and cousins fighting for the old lord's favor. After a moon's turn at the Twins, she knew all of the rumors, and had spread some of her own. More importantly, she knew the names of every man involved in the Red Wedding, and her list had grown longer by several Freys.

Arya's dreams were her only consolation in a castle full of enemies. By day she was Bella, a simple-minded, good-natured common girl who served the family their evening meals and scrubbed the floors with vigor. By night, she was the leader of a massive wolf pack, and the Riverlands were _hers_.

Her Nymeria-dreams were infinitely preferable to the alternative. Any night Arya didn't join her wolf, she'd dream of the Red Wedding, or the Waif's knives, or her father's execution. To ensure she would not be discovered, Arya had taken the coldest, most inhospitable bedchamber in the castle, which no Riverlands servant wished to share. There, she could have nightmares and wolf-dreams without giving herself away.

Her fingers had clenched around her wine jug as Walder Frey spoke of alliances and defeating enemies to Jaime Lannister, of all people. She wished she could have killed them all that very night. Alas, Arya Stark was older now, and she knew her limits.

Once the Lannisters had left, Arya had ensured that Nymeria's wolf pack would hound the westerlanders out of the Riverlands. Every night, a sentry would go missing. His remains would be found the next morning, devoured by wolves. If the remaining men were spooked and whispered about the vengeance of the Starks, so much the better.

Meanwhile, Nymeria had scouted around the Twins. As the gray direwolf turned north, she'd caught the scent of two small, bog-dwelling humans. Arya's control had slipped for a moment, and the beast had cornered the crannogmen scouts behind an enormous oak tree.

"Direwolf," the older one had whispered.

"Is it the king's beast?" the younger had replied, watching Nymeria with wide green eyes.

"Nay, King Robb's wolf is dead."

"Jon Snow's, then?"

Nymeria—and the human seeing through her eyes—had frozen at the names of her brothers, and the crannogmen had noticed.

"It knows the name," the older crannogman had said in awe. "Are you the Lord Commander's wolf, noble one?"

Arya had nudged Nymeria into shaking her massive head.

"But you _are_ a Stark beast, that much is plain," young green-eyes had said.

Nymeria had nodded.

"Go home then, lady wolf. Your brother is in Winterfell with Jon Snow and Sansa Stark. The Riverlands are no place for a creature of the North."

Arya had considered her options. Nymeria had eaten well, and would not devour Northmen while Arya whispered that these people were friends of the pack, but communicating through a direwolf was not exactly easy. She'd looked down at the snow, and had a sudden idea.

Before the two men's amazed eyes, the enormous gray direwolf had lifted her left paw, and drawn a clumsy letter in the snow. Three more had followed.

"Arya," the older scout had read in shock. He'd dropped to one knee, followed by his companion. "Forgive us, your grace; we had no idea you were a warg like your brothers!"

 _Warg_. Old Nan had told her about those, many years ago. Wargs were legendary skinchangers who lived among the First Men. In Nan's tales, the Starks of old had gained the ability after defeating the Warg King and taking his daughters. The greatest enemies of the Kings of Winter, the Red Kings of the Dreadfort, had flayed many a captured Stark, hoping to steal their skinchanging ability.

After all she'd seen through Nymeria's eyes, and those of the nameless Braavosi alley cat, Arya had realized that Old Nan and the crannogmen were right. She _was_ a warg, and clearly, Robb had been one as well.

"Where are you, your grace? If you're in need, we'll send to Winterfell for help!" the younger scout had offered. "I'm Rowland Fenn, and this is Maren Greengood."

Arya had shaken Nymeria's head again. She'd felt Nymeria's confusion as Arya used her paw to write, and had realized the wolf's patience would not last long. As quickly as possible, she'd smudged her name with her paws, and written an explanation in four disjointed words.

TALK BELLA VENGEANCE SECRET

The younger crannogman—Rowland—had smiled. "You've found a way to make the Freys pay for the Red Wedding, your grace? How can we help?"

Nymeria had shaken her head again, and pointed with her paw to the word SECRET.

"As you wish, Princess," they'd murmured.

The older man had used his boot to erase the latest message, and Nymeria had watched as they disappeared back into the trees.

A fortnight after meeting the crannogmen, Arya had finally put her plan into action. She'd lured Walder's disgusting, murderous sons into her chamber with flirty smiles, and killed them without a shred of remorse. Once she'd stripped them of their faces and fingers, Arya had taken a meat cleaver from the kitchens and chopped the corpses beyond recognition. Parts of them had gone into the river; others had been fed to Lord Walder's dogs and Nymeria's pack. The fingers had gone into the meat filling for Lord Walder's pie. With a grim smile at the thought of Hot Pie, and what he'd say to the desecration of a perfectly good pastry, Bella the serving wench had taken Lord Walder his last meal.

The rumors she had spread of illness were enough to account for the missing men. One by one, Bella found the men who had plotted the destruction of Robb; with winks, smiles, and kisses, she seduced, stabbed, or poisoned them, and their remains disappeared into the river, or into the belly of a wolf. Poisons and herbs from Arya's stores found their way into the women and children's meals, ensuring they'd stay abed and not wander around the castle. When people came to the Twins, hoping to see Walder Frey, they saw him and spoke with him. His loose robe—an old man's whim—hid his smaller, more slender body, and the thin sword at his side.

Arya was Lord of the Crossing now. She only wanted the perfect moment to reveal the mummer's farce, and declare to the world that the North remembered, and House Stark was avenged.

When Nymeria, now patrolling with her new crannogman friend, sniffed a strange man on a horse riding south, Arya bid her watch from the snow-covered bushes. The man was small, in his thirties, and had lost an arm, but when he fought his exhaustion and raised his head, the wolf caught a glimpse of sly, gray-green eyes. Arya remembered him.

"My lord," a pox-marked guard called, and Arya returned to herself. "Lord Petyr Baelish begs admittance to the castle. He's a in a bad way."

"How so?" Arya replied in the old man's voice.

"He says he was attacked by Northmen on the road," the guard answered.

Arya took her Needle and placed it on her lap. She didn't know if Petyr Baelish would know the significance, nor did she care. There would be no guest right for Littlefinger in this castle.

"Send him in, then," she ordered.

Petyr Littlefinger Baelish staggered into the hall. He looked terrible. His eyes were glazed with pain, and it seemed as though every step hurt him greatly. Under his cloak he wore an ill-fitting rough tunic, obviously borrowed or stolen, and one sleeve was empty.

"Lord Baelish. What brings you to the Twins?" asked Arya in Walder's voice.

"I must see a maester, my lord," he gasped, bracing his remaining hand on his knee. "I've been attacked, and survived purely by luck."

Arya would rather have let him die, but she wished to question him first.

"Very well. Take him to the maester's chambers," she ordered. "There is illness in the castle, and Maester Brenett is quite busy, but he'll see to you soon enough. I will speak with you later, Lord Baelish."

She decided to visit Walder's solar. He was not fond of climbing those stairs with his arthritic knees, so he'd rarely gone up there in his final days. Arya could do it and remain undetected, now that most of the Freys in the castle were sick in their beds.

The solar was musty with disuse. Papers and books lay forgotten on the desk, and the shuttered windows let in no light. Arya opened them at once, breathing easier when the chilly breeze struck her nose. It wasn't quite as pure or as cold as Winterfell's air, but it was something.

There was little of interest in the solar, except for an awful trophy hanging on the wall. Rage filled the young woman as she found the head of her brother's direwolf, stuffed and mounted above the fireplace and covered with dust. On Grey Wind's large head, he bore the Crown of Winter, taken from Robb's corpse after the Red Wedding.

For a moment, Arya could almost see her brother's face, with his auburn locks and Tully-blue eyes. In a fit of anger, the girl who was once No One ripped the direwolf head off the wall and collapsed to the ground, ignoring the cloud of dust as she held poor Grey Wind's head tight. A wail of suppressed grief escaped her, and suddenly she was weeping into the direwolf's fur. The crown rolled away, lost behind the large desk.

"You didn't deserve this," Arya murmured between sobs. " _We_ didn't deserve this! I avenged you, and Robb, but it was too late!"

She didn't know how long she spent on the floor of Walder Frey's solar, rocking back and forth, and crying over the stuffed direwolf head. No one disturbed her, and that was a pity. At the moment she wanted nothing more than to kill every Frey in the world, and make them hurt as much as she was hurting.

She could not leave poor Grey Wind here. Arya had discovered a particular spot near the orchard where the men she'd killed liked to piss. After a week's spying, she'd learned the reason—it was the resting place of her brother, Robb. The bastards who'd desecrated her brother's shallow grave would never do it again; it was as good a place as any to bury Grey Wind's head, since she had no means to take it—or Robb—home to Winterfell. And this way the two would stay together.

 _Tonight_ , she vowed. _Tonight I'll sneak out and bury him properly_.

She'd almost forgotten the crown. She crawled under the desk and picked it up, tracing the runes of the First Men and the sharp little swords. When she cut her finger on one, the sudden pain and bloom of red on her hand cleared her mind.

 _This belongs to Jon now_ , she realized. The Northmen at Winterfell had made her bastard brother King in the North after the battle; the crannogmen scouts had told her so. Lord Reed would leave soon to pledge his loyalty to him. Perhaps she should send the crown with him, as a message.

 _No_ , she decided. For the first time in years, her desire for revenge mattered less than the desire to see Jon again...and Sansa too, she supposed. It was too much to hope that they'd get along any better than they had as children, but perhaps they could begin anew?

She only needed to take care of Baelish first. Then, she could abandon her list for a while, and join her fellow wolves in Winterfell. It was time for the pack, wounded and diminished as it was, to come together again.

The little man was too weak to stand, or so the maester had informed Arya. She visited her guest in his room, one of the nicest guest chambers the Twins had to offer. He certainly looked worse for wear, not the impeccably turned out Master of Coin she'd seen at Harrenhal, or in King's Landing!

"Lord Walder?" mumbled the man, deep in a fog of poppy.

"Lord Baelish," Arya replied, taking a seat at his bedside. "You look terrible."

"You'd look terrible too," he said blearily, "if a direwolf tried to eat you."

"Ha!" cried the new Lady of the Crossing, taking full advantage of Walder Frey's toothless grin. "Run afoul of the wolves, have you? I didn't think there were any left. Last I heard, Roose Bolton was Warden of the North. Whereabouts did you find a direwolf?"

Baelish couldn't hide a grimace.

"Go on, tell an old man," Arya insisted.

"I took Sansa Stark north. She married Ramsay Bolton. It was a mistake," he said painfully. "Her bastard brother's wolf did this to me, after we took Winterfell back from the Boltons."

Arya fought a smirk. _Good boy, Ghost!_

"You harbored an enemy of the Queen Regent?" Arya asked, raising an eyebrow. "Mayhaps I ought to send you to her in chains. Here I thought you were a humble servant of King Tommen, as I am, and instead you've been plotting against the crown. For shame, Baelish!"

"Cersei and her boy will never hold the South," Littlefinger mumbled. "And Jon Snow will never hold the North. Fools, all of them."

"You're a slippery one, Littlefinger," mused Arya in her Walder face. "I can never puzzle out what your intentions are. You really are more trouble than you're worth."

"You're one to talk about intentions, Lord Frey," Baelish replied, blinking up at Arya with tired eyes. "One moment you were the Young Wolf's supporter, and the next you had broken the most ancient law of men and gods and butchered him in your hall. He disrespected you by marrying a Volantene wench instead of your Roslin, but did he not offer the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands in exchange?"

"A Lady Paramount married to the floppy fish was a poor substitute for a Queen in the North," Arya improvised, "and the Lannister alliance was more powerful than Robb Stark's. Enough of my men had died on the boy's foolish quest."

Baelish gave Arya a little smirk. "You're a _survivor_ , Lord Walder. I respect that. Too many fools would die for honor, glory, even gold—but not you."

"I suppose I am," Arya answered. "As are you. Is there anyone left in the world that you might call a friend, Petyr Baelish?"

"I must write to Lord Robert," he mumbled, his eyes closing again. "The Northmen and Lord Royce will have sent ravens full of lies; my stepson will be confused and worried."

"What sort of lies?"

But Baelish had succumbed at last. He slept, not knowing that Arya burned with curiosity at his bedside. She knew the man had plotted with Tywin against Robb; she knew it was his interference that had created the Lannister-Tyrell alliance that had ruined Stannis Baratheon. She also remembered the looks he'd shot at Sansa once, at the Hand's Tourney. They'd made Arya's skin crawl even then, though she hadn't fully understood what they meant at the time.

She was not exactly sure what he'd done, but if Ghost wanted him dead, it must have been worthy of a death sentence. During her intelligence-gathering phase, before killing the participants of the Red Wedding, Arya had heard much about Fat Walda Bolton, Wardeness of the North, from her jealous, thinner sisters and cousins. The lady had been a diligent correspondent, and worried about her babe's future when her husband's vicious bastard was nearby. Fat Walda's letters had ceased abruptly, and the Twins were rife with rumors about her fate. In this case, Arya was sure that the rumors were kinder than the truth.

And Petyr Baelish had sent Sansa to _that_ family.

Arya gave Littlefinger more than a moon's turn to recover from his ordeal. In that time, she gave the crannogmen permission to take the news of Walder's death to Jon, though not who had done it; she'd tell him that herself. She also amused herself by peeking at her guest's correspondence and searching through his possessions. There was little to interest her, except for a familiar-looking dagger.

She turned it over in her hands. Arya had seen this dagger before, she knew it! She recognized the rippled pattern of Valyrian steel, easily discerned after years of sneaking into Father's room to peek at Ice. She also recognized the hilt of black dragonbone. But where had she seen it?

Frustrated, she'd hidden the dagger in a pocket and returned to Littlefinger's messages. All of his urgent ravens had gone unanswered, save one. Her cousin, Robert Arryn, had written to him at last, and the letter read:

 _Dear Uncle Petyr,_

 _I am sorry to hear of your recent troubles. Mother always warned me about traveling in the wilderness, and it seems she was right, as she was in all things._

 _I have heard the reports you mentioned, but do not fear. I don't trust them; they're all waiting for me to die, and I don't believe you would be so cruel to your beloved wife's son. I am with Lady Waynwood, but I hardly mind what she tells me. She's just as likely to poison me as any of the others, and more, so her stupid Harry might have the Vale. I've taken on a food-tester, just in case._

 _Please do not worry about your reception. I will ensure you are treated as you deserve, and I wish you a safe journey home. If Lord Frey is willing to provide an escort, I will see them compensated and provisioned for the return journey._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Robert Arryn_

 _Lord of the Vale_

"What an idiot!" cried Arya, alone in Walder Frey's solar. "He can't be related to me; no Tully would be _that_ stupid!"

So, someone had accused Littlefinger of trying to poison the sickly liege lord of the Vale. Arya would not put it past him, marriage to Aunt Lysa or not. And Sansa had been with Baelish for some time. She wondered if the man had tried to poison _Sansa_ , too, and that's why Ghost had taken such a liking for his flesh. But no; Baelish had never shown any love—or interest, or admiration—for a Stark, _except_ Sansa. He was more likely to wed her than to poison her.

Idiot or not, Robert Arryn was family. No one poisoned Arya's family and got away with it, and no one sold a Stark to the _Boltons_ and got away with it!

As she pondered what to do, Arya remembered something she'd heard long ago, when she'd still had a family, and the bowels of the Red Keep had been hers to explore.

 _Littlefinger...the gods only know what game Littlefinger is playing. Yet Lord Stark's the one who troubles my sleep. He has the bastard, he has the books, and soon enough he'll have the truth. And now his wife has abducted Tyrion Lannister, thanks to Littlefinger's meddling..._

Seven hells, she had no idea she'd remembered that much. She'd gone all the way down to the river that night, miles from the castle, and had come out smelling like shit. She'd repeated the important bits to herself as she washed her clothes in the river and hiked back up to the Red Keep. But then the gold cloaks had taken her for a beggar, and Father had been too confused and angry to believe her jumbled story. And then Yoren had interrupted their talk!

 _It wasn't Jon_ , Arya realized. _The bastard must have been Joffrey! Father had figured out that the king's children were bastards, and that's why they'd killed him. And Littlefinger had helped!_

She picked up the dagger she'd stolen from Baelish, at last remembering where she'd seen it. Father had kept it on his desk in King's Landing! It was the dagger taken from the assassin the Lannisters had sent to kill Bran. Arya didn't know how it had gotten into Littlefinger's possession, but she doubted very much that Father had given it up willingly!

Arya made a mental checklist of the ingredients she'd brought from Braavos, and what she could get from the maester's solar. She could mix two dozen deadly poisons in the blink of an eye, but some were too fast for her liking. The strangler? That would make Baelish suffer for five minutes, at most. It wasn't enough for the man who had started the War of the Five Kings. Sweetsleep was even more merciful, and Littlefinger was not worthy of it.

Thickened manticore venom would have been perfect, but alas, she had no sorcerer nearby to thicken it, and unthickened it would kill far too quickly.

Basilisk venom? That would induce a murderous rage, but what damage could a one-armed man with no fighting skills do? Arya discarded that one at once. Widow's blood? Now _that_ was a poison. Arya quite liked the idea of turning Baelish's body against him, and watching him drown in the filth of his own bowels. It would be a slow, merciless death, much like greyscale.

She made her selection, and started preparing the mix immediately. She would allow Littlefinger to go home, escorted by the few Frey men she'd left alive—those who'd had nothing to do with her family's murder. He'd go home with an unexpected gift.

The widow's blood was finished two nights later. Due to its blood-red color, Arya had hidden the two drops needed in a cup of red wine, the best she could find in Walder's wine cellar, and ensured that Littlefinger would drink it. She'd watched him ingest the deadly wine with glee, and toasted his health with her own cup.

The North remembered!

Petyr Baelish would die screaming, so far from Winterfell that no one would ever suspect Jon or Sansa, but not today. Those doomed to death by widow's blood were forsaken by the Stranger until every last organ in their bodies had betrayed them. Arya only regretted that she would not see it for herself; she had her own journey to make.

* * *

 _That's not the last we've seen of Nymeria, so if you'd like to see Arya and her pack of wolves wreak havoc, stick around._

 _Next up: Bran, Meera, Brienne, and the rest of the escort arrive at Winterfell._


	17. Banishing Nightmares, Bran I

**AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 3 - Banishing Nightmares**

 **Bran I**

Seeing the walls of his beloved Winterfell again almost made Bran weep. He had not seen them since that awful day when he and Rickon had escaped, both powerless as their childhood home burned. After all these years, it was nearly impossible to believe that Jon and Sansa were so near, hiding behind the walls he'd climbed so many times.

Something must have shown on his face, because Meera took his hand and smiled.

"You're almost home, Bran," she told him quietly.

"As are you," he replied. "It's not Greywater Watch, but Jon's raven said your father was here."

Meera's smile dimmed. Bran knew she was eager to see her father again, but she'd have to tell him how Jojen had died. He wished he could take back his words.

"What's all this?" protested one of his Vale knight escorts, gesturing at the mass of people around Winterfell's eastern gate. The men, women, and children clustered at the gate were almost skeletal, wearing dirty clothing too thin for winter, and their frostbitten faces were pinched with pain and exhaustion.

"I don't know," replied one of the Bear Islanders. "Looks like smallfolk begging a place for the winter."

"Shouldn't they go straight to the winter town, then?" another argued.

Before they could discuss it further, a rider with a bright red beard came to meet them. Bran didn't recognize him, but his escorts obviously knew the man.

"Lady Commander!" he greeted cheerfully. "Welcome back! The Wintersguard has missed you sorely," he added, awkwardly gallant. Now that he was closer, Bran noticed he was dressed in wildling furs, and his accent was similar to Osha's.

"Your grace," Lady Brienne said, turning to face Bran. "This man is Tormund Giantsbane, one of your family's sworn protectors."

"You wound me, Commander!" the wildling cried. "I thought you kneeler folk were eager to give everyone titles, and bow and scrape. I'm Tormund Giantsbane, true enough, but I am also Tormund Thunderfist, Husband to Bears, the Mead-King of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods, Father of Hosts, and King Crow's most trusted friend. I am glad to meet you at last, Brandon Stark."

Bran couldn't help but like this man, though it was easy to see he irritated Lady Brienne.

"Yes, very well," she said impatiently. "What's all this commotion at the gate, Tormund?"

"They're the Winterfell folk carried away to the Dreadfort," he replied, turning somber. "They're in a bad way, and they've had a hard march, but not a single one would stay in that place another day."

Bran's stomach sank into the legs he could no longer feel. These were the people he had failed by yielding Winterfell to Theon! He couldn't bear to see them now, when he was comfortable and warm and surrounded by protectors, and _they_ were so tired that some could barely stand.

"What is being done for them?" Brienne asked.

"Princess Sansa and her people are serving them hot stew in the Great Hall," Tormund answered. "Jon made some of his kneeler lords bring their chained heal—maesters—and they're tending the ill and wounded folk in the guards' hall. Well, to be truthful, they're _all_ ill and wounded—but some more than most. If you wish to come inside quicker, you ought to ride around to the north gate. I'll warn Jon and Sansa," he offered. "They'll be _that_ glad to see you, little Bran!"

"Don't!" cried Bran, suddenly dreading the meeting. "They're busy helping our people. I can wait until they're finished."

"Your grace," protested Young Artos of the Wintersguard. "King Jon and Princess Sansa will wish to welcome you!"

"I will _wait_ ," Bran insisted. "And I will rest. I am tired from the journey," he lied. He'd never been so comfortable on any journey, with horses pulling his weight over smooth snow, and piles of furs to keep him warm, but the guilt and shame nullified it all. He wanted to hide.

"Very well, your grace," Brienne told him. Her honest face showed disappointment, but she ordered the group to turn right, and they rode around to the north gate. Even from the outside, Bran could see the changes the Battle of the Bastards had wrought. Enormous white banners hung proudly from the outer curtain wall, the same his mother had ordered for King Robert's visit. The running direwolf of House Stark adorned Winterfell again.

Bran did not realize he was crying until the wind picked up. When he and his escorts reached the north gate, it was deserted, with only a few guards to protect it. The prince said little as Brienne declared their purpose and the outer gate swung open, taking in his home with wide blue eyes. Over the moat they went, and through the inner gate. The entrance to the crypts was nearby, also deserted, as were the ruins of the glass gardens. Bran thought of his baby brother down there, buried with the scary old Kings of Winter, and closed his eyes against a new flood of tears.

"Watch out!" warned one of the Vale knights, taking the reins tightly as his horse panicked.

Before Bran could react, a massive white wolf had jumped onto his sled, scattering the remaining logs Brienne's men had used to light the campfires. An eager tongue licked at his face, making Bran laugh despite himself.

"Ghost! Stop!"

His cousin's direwolf watched Bran with intelligent red eyes. The boy buried his gloved hands in the coarse, snow-white fur.

"I'm glad you're here to greet me," he told the wolf quietly. "I wish Summer were with us, too."

Ghost seemed to understand. He nudged Bran with his large head, silent as always.

They hadn't even arrived at the Great Keep when a man dressed in Stark gray ran toward them. A tall young woman with long, auburn braids followed as closely as her skirts allowed, and a smaller man dressed in green brought up the rear.

"Bran!" shouted Jon joyfully, sprinting to the sled and kneeling at his side (after giving Ghost a gentle nudge). Bran looked up at him in awe. Jon had grown up so much! The resemblance between him and Father was incredible, though the crown of swords on his head was new. "I saw you coming through Ghost's eyes," he admitted quietly. "Welcome home, brother!"

Sansa knelt on Bran's other side, smiling and weeping. She wore a crown as well, a thin iron band with winter roses made of bronze. "Oh, Bran!" she cried, bending to hug him. "I'm so glad you're safe!"

The Vale knights and Bear Islanders scattered, giving the Starks their privacy. Meera, forgotten for the nonce, ran to embrace her father. Only the Wintersguards remained, guarding their charges from a short distance.

"It's good to be home," Bran told them, blinking up at his family through teary eyes. "You look well."

Jon gave him a small, crooked smile. "We've been better, but we've been worse, too. We have much to tell you, when you've recovered from your journey."

"I have much to tell you, too," Bran told him seriously. He _dreaded_ the moment he had to tell Jon he wasn't Father's son; there was no possible way he would be happy about that; not Jon, who was more like Father than any of Ned Stark's children!

"Where is your direwolf?" Sansa asked, looking in vain for a second wolf. When Bran's face fell, she bowed her head in understanding.

"Summer died protecting me from wights, just like Hodor and Jojen," he mumbled shamefully. "I couldn't help them."

Jon's eyes had gone wide. "You've met wights?"

Bran nodded. "Uncle Benjen has, too. He almost became one, but the Children stopped it. He's gone all cold," the prince told them, frowning at the lack of proper words to describe his uncle, "but he's not dead. It's hard to explain."

"Why didn't he come with you?" Jon wondered. "Surely if he's almost a wight, he's free of his oath to the Watch?"

"As free as you are?" Bran asked ruefully. The memory of his cousin's stabbing made him shudder. That was a vision he'd never asked to see. "He's not like you, Jon. He never actually died, but he's a lot closer to dead. The magic of the Wall wouldn't let him pass."

"We should go inside," Sansa decided. "Bran needs to get out of the cold, and rest and eat."

Jon nodded in agreement. "Lady Brienne, we'll need a litter, or two strong men to carry Bran to his chambers."

"I'll find some, your grace," she promised, wandering off in search of volunteers.

"Oh, Bran," sighed Sansa. "I can't believe you're home, but I'm so glad!"

"Me too," Jon told him, watching him with those Stark gray eyes that missed nothing. "You won't believe what's happened around here."

"I doubt that," Bran promised wryly. He allowed Brienne's volunteers to carry him into the Great Keep, and up the stairs to the family wing. Jon, Sansa, Ghost, and the Wintersguards followed like ducklings until he'd been placed on his old bed. Jon dismissed them all with a regal wave of his hand, but not before asking for food.

"He's good at that, isn't he?" Bran observed to Sansa, who grinned.

"He used to act and speak like a Lord Commander," Sansa explained, watching Jon shut the door. "But I've been training him to act and _dress_ more kingly."

"Just because you don't like black—" Jon protested, catching the end of Sansa's comment as he returned to Bran's bedside.

"It's not just the black, Jon! The rips in your shirts, the holes in your stockings! A king can't have _holes_ in his stockings!"

Bran laughed for the first time in ages. Finally, he felt at home.

"That was _one time_!" Jon protested, though his eyes shone with mirth. "And it was right after a battle! Who has time to mend stockings after a battle, I ask you?" the King in the North complained, his accent growing more and more northern in his exasperation. "And I challenge you to find a man who doesn't rip his shirts now and then after a good sparring match, or after repairing buildings and hauling barrels of supplies. I don't just sit around and look kingly all day, you know!"

Bran laughed harder, and this time Sansa and Jon joined him. Only when tears streamed down Sansa's face did they calm down. A timid knock at the door revealed one of the kitchen maids, carrying a tray with three bowls of stew, a plate of bread, and three tankards of ale. Bran wagered it was the same fare they were serving to the men and women in the Great Hall, and smiled at his sister and cousin.

"Well, we have plenty of tales to tell you, and you have some for us. Where should we begin, Bran?" asked Jon, picking up a bowl and dipping his bread in it.

"I'll start," Bran said.

In between bites of food, he told them of his dreams after his fall; of waking up and finally naming his direwolf, Summer. He spoke of Tyrion Lannister, and the plans he'd left for a saddle that would carry even a cripple. He told them of the Greatjon's fingers and Robb's departure; of Osha, Meera and Jojen, of Theon's betrayal and of hiding in the crypts while Winterfell was sacked. The words became more and more difficult, due to the great lump that had formed in his throat. He told them of poor Maester Luwin's death, and how he and Rickon had escaped, leaving their people to the Boltons. He'd been a complete failure as Lord of Winterfell, and the smallfolk had suffered for it.

"Bran, _no_ ," Jon cried, dropping his empty bowl and hugging him fiercely. Bran soaked his cousin's clothes with his tears, but Jon didn't seem to mind. "I _know_ how you feel, brother. I failed at my duties too, and for some reason the Red Witch brought me back, when so many others die and never return, or they come back as slaves to the White Walkers. But _this wasn't your fault_ ; Robb took the men south, and Theon betrayed us; what else could you have done?"

"I don't know," Bran sobbed. "Something. _Anything_."

Sansa watched in sympathetic silence, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she allowed them this moment. Bran knew she'd had her failures too, but she'd never been responsible for so many lives. Jon understood where she could not.

When Bran had composed himself, Jon released him and returned to his perch at the foot of his bed. There was no shame or judgment in those gray eyes. The silent support helped Bran overcome his embarrassment.

"Where did you go after you escaped?" Sansa asked finally, her hands wrapped delicately around her tankard of ale.

Bran spoke of the Tumbledown Tower and Queenscrown, where he'd attacked wildlings from inside Summer's skin. He told them he'd seen Jon that day, and helped him escape. Jon's eyes went wide, but he did not interrupt. He went on, telling them of the Nightfort, as well as his meeting with Samwell Tarly, and of crossing the Wall to the north. The afternoon turned into evening, and the weak sun disappeared. As Bran spoke, Jon lit some candles and added wood to the fire.

Sansa's and Jon's faces scrunched in confusion as he told them of the three-eyed crow, the Children, green dreams and greenseers, and wights. Bran told them of Brynden Rivers, weirwood paste, and how he had learned to see through the eyes of the weirwood trees.

"It was you," Sansa breathed. "When we set the trap for Littlefinger in the godswood."

Bran nodded. "I saw him hold a dagger to Father's throat in one of my visions," he explained. "I knew he couldn't be trusted. I had to help you."

Before he lost his nerve, Bran told them of seeing the Night King, and showed them the mark he'd left on his arm. In a rushed jumble of words, he told them of Hodor's sacrifice, Bloodraven's death, and his flight south with Meera and Uncle Benjen.

"The Night King _touched_ you?" Jon asked, looking at Bran in horror.

Bran nodded in shame, clutching his marked forearm. "I'm not sure what the mark is for, but it destroyed whatever protected that cave," he told them. "And it was all my fault; because I had to go poking around!"

"Bran," sighed Jon. "Any battle commander would tell you that information is crucial. You were only trying to see what we're up against."

"And what if he can follow me wherever I go, because I have this?" Bran cried, lifting his arm. "What if he comes to Winterfell?"

"Then I'll say hello with _this_ ," Jon replied, showing Bran his Valyrian steel sword. "Longclaw, the ancestral sword of House Mormont. It's killed a White Walker before, and it will do so again."

Of course he'd say so. Jon was nothing if not brave, and a fierce defender of the Starks. It only made Bran's next tale harder to tell.

"Jon," Bran said, hesitating. "I must tell you this, but you'll hate it. You'll hate _me_."

That got his cousin's attention, and Sansa's too.

"What is it?"

"In one of my visions, I saw a tower in the mountains of Dorne," Bran said slowly. "I saw Father and his companions fighting Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower, and Oswell Whent."

Jon and Sansa glanced at each other. Bran was not sure what they meant by it.

"Jon—I saw your birth," he said quickly. "I love you like a brother, but you're _not_ our brother. You're Aunt L—"

"Lyanna's son?" Jon asked, giving Bran a small, crooked smile. "I know. Lord Reed told me the story, and he brought documents to back it up."

 _Oh_.

Well, that was a surprise. And a relief, if Bran was honest with himself. Jon was strangely unruffled about the whole thing, however.

"I didn't think you'd be so calm," Bran confessed.

"I wasn't, when he first told me. I might have shouted a bit, and felt sorry for myself. And it didn't help that Jaime Lannister was here, talking about how great my father was," Jon replied honestly. "I've had weeks to get used to the idea. And it helps that Rhaegar didn't actually kidnap and rape Ly—my mother, I suppose."

"The whole council knows," Sansa told Bran. "Jon told them all as soon as we found out, and he's still king, somehow. I think the lords were shamed into staying loyal by Jon's wildlings; _they_ don't care whose son he is."

"That's about the size of it," Jon agreed. "Tormund may have saved my life that day. That said, if you'd like to take over, I will hand over my title in an instant," he offered, holding out his crown. Sansa groaned in annoyance.

"I told you I wouldn't allow it," Bran replied, grinning at the cousin he loved like a brother. "I have enough to do as a greenseer—and Lord of Winterfell, I suppose, though Sansa has done a fine job with that as far as I can see. I've been trying to find anything in the crypts that can help us, and tell us how the White Walkers were defeated the first time."

"Why the crypts?" asked Sansa in confusion.

Bran shrugged. "They're the oldest part of Winterfell, and I've been thinking about the iron swords. Is it like Father said, and the swords keep the restless dead inside their tombs, or are they there to protect something? If the dead turned to wights back in Bran the Builder's day, why do we bury our dead instead of burning them? And how did our ancestors defeat the White Walkers before they had Valyrian steel? They didn't even have _iron_ until the Andals crossed the sea _._ "

"I have no idea," Jon confessed. Sansa agreed with him.

"Well, I'll go back as far as I can using the heart tree, and let you know if I find anything interesting. In the meantime, I have something for you, Jon."

Bran removed the bundle he'd hidden inside the furs he'd traveled in. Sansa looked politely puzzled, but recognition flared in Jon's eyes as soon as he saw the hand-and-a-half longsword, with its dragon-adorned pommel and cross-guard.

"It can't be," he said reverently. "Blackfyre?"

"The very same," Bran told him, handing the blade to Jon with a smile. "Brynden Rivers took it to the Wall with him, and kept it in the cave all these years. Aegon the Conqueror's sword is now yours, Aemon Targaryen."

Jon flinched. "Bran, please. I'm still Jon."

"I know; you'll always be my brother at heart, but the sword is yours. I've seen Daenerys Targaryen in a vision or two, and I can tell you she'd never wield this sword, even if she had the training; it's too big for her. That leaves you, the last Targaryen prince. And it's Valyrian steel, conveniently enough."

"Yes," Jon said softly, inspecting the old sword. "I'm used to Longclaw, though. I can't wield both at the same time, and we don't have a smith that can melt either down into smaller weapons. If we did, we could turn this into several daggers, or even arrowheads. I'll have to give Blackfyre to a worthy swordsman."

"Jon!" protested Sansa. "You can't give away your family sword, not like that!"

The King in the North shrugged. "Blackfyre is just another sword to me. A legendary one, to be sure, but I don't feel like it's _mine_. The Starks are my family."

"We know, Jon," Sansa told him gently. "But you're a Targaryen prince, too. Now that you've told everyone, you'll have to take the title and everything that goes with it—like legendary swords."

"I agree," Bran told them. "Why don't you give Longclaw to Lady Brienne? I got half of Father's sword from Jaime Lannister," he told them, showing them a second sword hidden among his things. "If we can get the other half from her, we could see about reforging Ice, and Longclaw would be a suitable replacement for the Lady Commander of our Wintersguard. You could pass down the sword with the title."

"We don't have a smith that can reforge Father's sword," Jon objected. "And how did you convince Ser Jaime to give up his blade?"

"We traded," Bran confessed. "I gave him Dark Sister, and he gave me Widow's Wail."

"Widow's Wail?" Jon said in disgust. "Who came up with _that_ name?"

"Joffrey, of course," Sansa sighed. "He couldn't even give Father's sword a decent name, the useless, inbred, Lannister sack of shi—"

"Sansa!" cried Bran, wide-eyed.

"What?"

"Nothing, it's just—I've never heard you curse like that," Bran said sheepishly.

"Oh, that," Jon said, keeping his expression neutral. "I've been teaching her to speak like a Princess in the North, or a spearwife, depending on the situation. She's good at that, isn't she?"

Bran's burst of laughter was heard around the Great Keep. "You've been hard at work teaching each other, haven't you?"

"Aye," Jon said fondly. "Princess Sansa insists I must learn to act kingly and play the harp, like my father before me."

"And King Jon has been educating me on the old wives' tales of the North, and swears from beyond the Wall," Sansa told Bran. " _Not_ like my mother before me."

"I'll say," Bran agreed with a grin.

"Well," said Jon, getting to his feet. "We have over two hundred new arrivals, and this kingdom won't run itself. I need to leave you for a bit, brother."

He ruffled Bran's hair, and Bran blinked back tears at the memory of his father and Robb doing the same thing, so long ago.

"You have to come back tomorrow, Jon," Bran told him. "You and Sansa still need to tell me _your_ stories."

"What, you didn't see it all through the weirwoods, since you're the Three-Eyed Wolf?"

"Of course not!" Bran protested. "I'm still learning, and there aren't enough hours in the day to follow all of my family, all of the time. Besides, I wouldn't follow you to the privy, or into your bath."

Jon's dark eyes went wide, and then he flushed in sudden horror.

"Don't worry, your grace," Bran teased. "I didn't watch you with Ygritte, either."

"Brat," huffed the King in the North, still a very becoming shade of crimson. He said goodbye to Sansa, and then excused himself from Bran's bedchamber with a shake of the head.

Bran rearranged his pillow, and wiped at the half-dried tears on his cheeks. He was as comfortable as he could be, and fire crackled merrily a few feet away. From the foot of his bed, he heard Ghost snoring; he could almost imagine it was Summer. Sansa took some needlework out of her apron pocket and went to work, humming a familiar tune to herself as Bran drifted off to sleep.

It was good to be home.

* * *

 _Woohoo! The Stark count at Winterfell is now 3 humans and one direwolf, if you count Jon. And he's a Stark on his mother's side, so he totally counts. Unlike in the show, the people Theon and then the Boltons screwed over didn't just vanish into thin air, either. They're here and they're hungry and traumatized as all get out, but the Starks have their smallfolk back._

 _Now, my Bran is obviously quite different to show!Bran, who seems to have given up his personality to make room for a massive info dump. I'm not going to do that. Bran has changed, and you'll see it as the story goes on, but he's still human. He doesn't know everything; he has access to it, but he has thousands of years of information to sort through to find something useful. It's going to take up his time and energy, and neither Jon nor Sansa will fully understand what he's going through. Now that the initial "yay, our baby brother is home" reaction is over, they'll start to see the real Bran._

 _Next up: Bran gets down to business and reveals his gift to the northern council._


	18. Banishing Nightmares, Bran II

**AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 3 - Banishing Nightmares**

 **Bran II**

Jon and Sansa woke Bran early the next morning, insisting that as the Lord of Winterfell (and the King in the North's closest male relative), he belonged on the king's council. It was the furthest thing from Bran's mind, though he reluctantly agreed to make an appearance. With the help of Jon, Young Artos, and Joren, the Three-eyed Raven bathed, dressed in Robb's old clothes, and allowed the Wintersguards to carry him downstairs.

Lords hailed him as he went past; some he remembered, and others he knew only by their sigils. Tormund the wildling grinned at him, while Howland Reed gave Bran a respectful nod. Once they'd reached Jon's solar, his guards set Bran down carefully on Jon's right. Sansa's place had been moved to Jon's left, as she was no longer Lady of Winterfell—at least for the nonce. Jon and Lord Davos murmured names to Bran when prompted, so he would not embarrass himself in front of Winterfell's bannermen. Bronze Yohn had brought a younger Vale knight along, the only two on the council. Jon named him Harrold Hardying, Robert Arryn's heir.

All chatter ceased as Jon's Hand began the meeting.

"My lords," he said gravely, "be welcome to the Council of the North. Our first item of business is to welcome back Prince Brandon Stark from his time north of the Wall," Davos Seaworth informed the council, and there was a round of cheers and claps. Bran fought the urge to slide down his chair. He did not deserve such a welcome.

"Jon, I want to speak," Bran said softly, nudging his cousin. Jon heard and stood at once, raising an arm to call for silence.

"My lords and ladies, Lord Stark wishes to speak to you," he said, sounding every bit the King in the North.

"Forgive me if I do not stand," Bran said, determinedly looking at the men and women in front of him, instead of down at his lap. "I am grateful for the welcome I've received, truly. All of the praise should go to Lady Meera Reed, who protected me against all odds when my other companions were gone. If there is anything I may do for you or yours, Lord Howland, I will do it gladly; I'm sure King Jon would say the same."

"I would," Jon agreed easily.

The Norrey clapped poor Lord Reed on the shoulder, and nearly sent the smaller man flying off his chair. A few others chuckled at the sight, but Meera's father took it all in stride.

"There is nothing we require at the moment, your graces," he said softly, "but thank you."

"I'm sure many of you wondered why I passed north of the Wall, instead of looking to my cousin for refuge," Bran went on. Jon and Sansa turned to him in alarm; they had no idea what he might reveal, or how the council would react to it, but Bran knew his duty. "I did so because I was called, my lords. Do any of you remember the tales of green dreams and greenseers?"

Lord Reed nodded, and so did a few of the clansmen. Tormund Giantsbane frowned, deep in thought, but most of the council looked politely confused.

"After I fell from the Broken Tower, I was visited in my dreams; the visitor was Brynden Rivers, or the Bloodraven," Bran explained. "He went north long ago, and met the Children of the Forest. Until recently, he was the Three-eyed Raven. Now he is dead, and that duty falls to me."

"Your grace," asked Bronze Yohn carefully, "what does that mean?"

"It means that I have access to more knowledge than I will ever be able to use," Bran replied, finding his own explanation awkward. It was so _difficult_ to put into words what being the Three-eyed Raven entailed! "I can see through the weirwood trees, things that are happening now, and things that happened long ago. I can fly with the crows, or run with wolves. It also means," Bran went on, knowing this would cause a stir, "that I cannot serve as Lord of Winterfell. I must use my skills to find a solution to the Long Night."

He'd been right. There was a storm of questions, protests, and arguments, until Ser Davos called for silence by banging a heavy book against the table.

"This is difficult to believe, I know," Bran acknowledged, "but I can prove it. Would one of you please name a historical event you would like to see?"

Lord Glover frowned; Bran didn't know if it was disbelief, or if he was deep in thought. Little Lady Mormont had closed her eyes, muttering under her breath. Perhaps she was recalling her lessons, thought Bran.

Lord Cerwyn stood awkwardly. "Your grace, I'm quite curious—and I'm sure many of us are—about the events that led to Lord Eddard's murder, but I would not ask you to view such a thing—if, indeed, it is possible."

Sansa closed her eyes as though the mention of it pained her, but said nothing. Bran saw Jon take her hand in his, and squeeze it in silent support. His glare at Lord Cerwyn was not subtle.

"How about the famous duel between Cregan Stark and Aemon the Dragonknight?" suggested the Flint, earning several nods of agreement.

"Your grace, could you show us the Lady Lyanna?" asked Lord Howland in his quiet manner, and the room hushed at once. Jon's grey eyes went wide. Clearly, the thought of seeing his mother, _living_ instead of a gray statue in the crypts, had never occurred to him.

Bran had only intended to prove his status as a greenseer, but this would be perfect. With just one stroke, he could show Jon his mother, prove to the Northmen that Lyanna Stark had gone with Rhaegar Targaryen willingly, and reveal the usefulness of his gift.

"Of course," Bran answered, looking to Jon for permission. Jon gave it with an uncertain nod.

Meera and Young Artos had helped him with the paste before the meeting. Bran produced a small weirwood bowl, taken from the cave where he had met Brynden Rivers, full of mashed weirwood seeds. There was enough to give each member a spoonful—enough to take them along for one vision, no more.

"This is a special paste made from the seeds of Winterfell's heart tree," Bran explained. It also had a bit of his blood, but Bran was not about to tell them that. "Though you are not greenseers, if you eat some of this, you can follow me into any vision I wish to show you. I must warn you, the flavor is not pleasant," he added, remembering his first taste of the stuff.

"It sounds a bit like the Shade of the Evening they use in the East," Ser Davos commented. "Tastes awful, turns your lips blue, and gives you visions, or so I've heard."

"We ought to finish the meeting before that, however. Since I will be quite busy as the Three-eyed Raven, I wish for Sansa to take over as Lady of Winterfell," Bran announced. "I know that I will never have children, so Winterfell must go to Sansa, and her children after that."

"Bran," Sansa protested weakly, but there was nothing to say. She knew the laws of inheritance as well as anyone, and unless Arya returned, she was the last Stark who could carry on the family name.

"The portion of Robb's will disinheriting Sansa must, of course, be revoked," Jon told his council. "She was a prisoner of the Lannisters at the time, and Robb had no way to know that she would find herself back home, _without_ any Lannisters. I propose making Sansa Stark, Princess in the North, Lady Stark of Winterfell once more."

The council voted. Though some hands came up more reluctantly—and the Starks marked their owners well—the vote was unanimous. Bran supposed her part in trapping Littlefinger had earned back some of the respect she'd lost by keeping the Vale army secret.

"Very well," Ser Davos told them. "Princess Sansa is now officially Lady of Winterfell, while Prince Brandon serves the realm as Three-eyed Raven. Our second item of business is the new arrivals from the Dreadfort," he went on, and Bran's good mood evaporated. "Maester Mors, have you the final numbers?"

The frail old maester, on loan from Castle Cerwyn, stood and bowed. "I have, my lord Hand. We received one hundred and seventy women, six-and-forty men, and twelve children. All were taken from Winterfell when the Boltons took the castle, or after. Nine-and-twenty others perished on the road, and were burned as His Grace ordered.

"So many women," murmured the Norrey, shaking his head. "And with winter upon us. Damn those Boltons, and the Ironborn whoresons, too!"

"It is likely that another score will perish within the week, my lords," the maester admitted. "We've done all we can for them, but after years of neglect and torment, bandages and soup cannot reverse all of the damage. Many of them, especially the women, are afraid of their own shadows. Some won't say a word, even to their remaining family."

Each word was a dagger into Bran's heart. Despite Jon's reassurances from last night, he felt his failure keenly. He knew the feeling would not go away until he'd _done_ something for these people, even if it was save them from the Night King.

"We have to do more for them," Sansa spoke up. "But what?"

"The problem with you kneelers is that you don't teach your women to protect themselves," Tormund spoke up, earning indignant glares from the Northmen. "Among the Free Folk, a father's duty is to train his sons _and_ his daughters. That way, if an unworthy man tries to steal a girl, she can gut him where he stands."

Jon's face brightened. "Would some of your spearwives be willing to train our women, if they wish it?"

"Aye," the red-bearded Wintersguard replied. "They know there's nothing worse than facing an enemy you can't fight," he said, looking haunted. Bran knew he was thinking of the White Walkers. "Give a woman a knife, or a spear, or even a bow; train her to use it, and she has little to fear from ordinary men."

"Hear, hear," Lyanna Mormont spoke up, glancing at the wildling with respect. "On Bear Island, women of House Mormont pick up practice swords and battleaxes as young as five. That's why no Mormont has been taken for a salt wife in centuries, though the Ironborn have certainly tried. We mount the weapons of those who attempt it in our trophy room, and their heads on spikes outside Mormont Hall," she told them smugly. "If any of these women wish to learn the ax, I will volunteer my own master-at-arms to teach them."

"I know this is quite a break from tradition, my lords," Jon said, looking at the men who appeared most unsure, "but think of all that the women of the North have suffered. How many of the Ironborn could they have killed, if they'd only known how?"

Lady Tallhart nodded slowly. Torrhen's Square knew better than most what happened when the Ironborn caught one unawares. Even Robett Glover looked convinced. Lord Royce and his young companion were still frowning, but as their women were safe in the Vale, this decision did not affect the Vale at all.

"Then let us go forward. If you know of any man who would be willing to help with this endeavor, please let Ser Davos know," Jon ordered. "In the meantime, we will see to our guests' other needs, and place as many of them back in their homes as will fit."

Ser Davos took up his list. "Next is the building materials recovered from the Dreadfort's North Tower. Half have been sent to Deepwood Motte, and half to Torrhen's Square. When we can spare the men, more will follow until we have dismantled every stone of that keep."

Lord Manderly looked incredibly pleased with himself. "There is a second barge coming down the White Knife, guarded by my best men, carrying the treasure hoard of the Boltons. If your grace will permit it, we could trade it all for food. The gold and silver we've recovered could feed the army for a year. If the Boltons had an account with the Iron Bank, those moneys belong to Princess Sansa now, so there may be more."

Jon, Sansa, and the council were quite happy with these news, though Bran found his attention wandering. Just as Jon opened his mouth to agree, Lord Royce spoke up.

"Your grace, whom would you trade with? Jaime Lannister said his sister blew up the Great Sept of Baelor, and the Tyrells with it. Now Daenerys Targaryen is heading west; the South will be embroiled in another war soon enough."

"Lord Willas and Lady Olenna Tyrell were not in King's Landing," Sansa told him. "So at the very least, two Tyrells remain. If that fails, there's always Dorne, and Essos."

"Aye, and the Iron Bank as well," Jon added. "But I'd rather not take out a loan so large that the Iron Bank owns us all in the end. We must get what we need to survive, and no more."

"Have you thought of taking a southron bride, your grace?" Lord Royce asked Jon suddenly. "A girl from a wealthy family, with a substantial dowry, could feed your people for some time."

Bran felt, rather than saw, Jon flinch. "I've had little time to think of it," he answered grimly, "but I can't imagine any gently-bred southron lady that would wish to come to the North in winter, to marry the man she thinks is Ned Stark's oathbreaking bastard."

"Your grace, I must protest!" Lord Manderly boomed, the loudest of many. "My granddaughters would consider it an honor to marry Eddard Stark's nephew, and they are as gently bred as any southron girl! And we here know the circumstances of your release from the Night's Watch," he added quickly.

"I mean no offense, Lord Manderly," Jon soothed him, "but your granddaughters are ladies of the North, where the name Stark and the Night's Watch mean something. One is a house of dead fools, and the other is a joke, beyond the Neck."

Tormund's face had scrunched up in confusion. "Are you saying kneelers _pay_ a man to marry his daughter? Why? He's gaining a woman to look after his house, bear his children, and keep him warm at night, is he not?"

"I'll explain later," Jon promised with a slight twitch of the lips. Bran knew he was fighting back a smile. "In the meantime, my lords, I will gladly consider any possible brides you suggest— _consider_ only. I've little time for courting at the moment. Ser Davos, is there anything else?"

"No, your grace," answered the Lord Hand.

"Then we'll go to the godswood," Jon ordered with a nod at Bran.

Bran let his guards carry him downstairs, where a new chair awaited. Lord Royce had told Jon and Sansa of the wheeled chairs Prince Doran used to travel around his palace, and together, they'd designed a similar one for Bran. When Lady Brienne had wheeled him underneath the ancient heart tree, Bran gave a spoonful of weirwood paste to each member of the council, starting with Jon.

"This is awful," Sansa said, shuddering at the unpleasant taste. Many others followed suit, though none declined it. Once Lady Brienne had taken the last spoonful, Bran put down the bowl.

"Everyone, hold hands," he said, taking Sansa's hand. "Don't let go until we're inside the vision, or I won't be able to guide you."

He placed his free hand on the weirwood, and closed his eyes, concentrating. When a clear picture of Lyanna Stark came to his mind, young and dressed in men's clothing, he opened his eyes. The snow had vanished. He, his family, and the council stood in a green clearing on a sunny day, under the shadow of an enormous ruined castle. Part of Bran's mind always remained in the present with his body, but the rest of him had traveled back in time to the Tourney of Harrenhal.

"Harrenhal," breathed Lord Royce reverently. A few others were already looking at Bran in awe, but Jon's dark eyes darted around the clearing, looking for his mother. She had not arrived yet.

"How does this work, your grace?" asked a wide-eyed Lady Brienne. "Have we truly traveled back in time?"

"Only our minds," Bran replied. "Our bodies are still under the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood."

"Can we change anything?" Jon asked immediately.

"No, Jon," Bran replied sadly. _You can't save them, brother._ "The ink is dry. We can only watch."

Jon took this disappointment with good grace. He paced around the clearing a bit, quiet and solemn, taking in the sights.

The others were not so morose. It was like watching a bunch of children. Harrold Hardying, Lord Cerwyn, and several others had reached for the grass or the nearest tree trunk with hesitant fingers, reeling in surprise when their fingers passed straight through.

"I've never seen so much green," the red-bearded Tormund said with a stunned look in his eye. "How far is this place from the Wall?"

"Oh, two thousand miles, at least," replied a distracted Sansa. "This is the God's Eye, the largest lake in Westeros."

"There is an island in the middle," Howland Reed added, "called the Isle of Faces. It is there that the First Men and the Children of the Forest ended their war, and all of the weirwoods were given faces so the gods could witness the Pact."

The wildling Wintersguard's mouth fell open. "My folk call that the Holy Island. I thought it was a myth."

"Lord Howland," Bran called out, knowing the moment was near. "My aunt is coming."

Everyone froze.

With a feminine giggle, a squire burst through the trees on Bran's left. Her hair had been pinned up severely, to fit better under her helm. Her shield, dented and scratched, bore a laughing weirwood tree. Her breeches were too long for her, and none of her armor pieces fit correctly, but Lyanna Stark, the Knight of the Laughing Tree, was jubilant.

She took off her helm and tossed it into the lake with a grunt of effort. The God's Eye, despite its size, was calm on this windless day, and a summery shade of deep blue. Lyanna admired it for a moment, then went back to removing her armor. It was hard work without a squire to help her.

"That's her," said Lord Glover, standing as close to the apparition as he dared. Jon had not moved an inch, but his gray eyes were fixed on his young mother. " _Lyanna Stark_ was the mystery knight at the Tourney of Harrenhal?"

"Aye," answered Lord Reed with a fond smile. "She was defending the honor of a friend, my lord."

"We all knew she was formidable on horseback," Lady Tallhart observed.

As Lyanna struggled to remove her pauldrons, a second figure entered the clearing. A silver-haired man with indigo eyes watched her in amusement.

"Do you need a hand with that, ser?" he offered, his musical voice startling Lyanna so much that she jumped. She turned quickly, and her face went white at the sight of the Crown Prince.

"Your grace!" she cried. "I can explain! This isn't mine, I was—"

Rhaegar Targaryen raised a hand, and Lyanna went still. "I have no intention of dragging you to face my father's pyromancers," he promised, and Lyanna relaxed a bit. "I _did_ come to congratulate you on a fine performance, but if you insist you are not the mystery knight, then who am I to doubt a lady's word?"

"It _was_ a fine performance," Lyanna said, with a crooked grin that reminded Bran of Arya. He knew he wasn't the only one reminded of their lost sister; Sansa was watching their aunt with a fond look, while Jon did his best impression of a statue on her other side.

"Why did you do such a thing?" the prince asked, unable to hold back his curiosity. "Surely the Northmen don't allow their ladies to joust?"

"Northmen don't joust much at all," Lyanna replied tartly. "And if my father knew what I've just done, your grace, he'd lock me up forever. Though considering the alternative, that may not be so bad..."

She trailed off, looking unhappy.

"I challenged those three because they found my father's bannerman in the woods, and beat him without any provocation," she explained, looking up at the prince. "He's small, and not a brawler like my oldest brother. Aren't southron knights meant to be all chivalry and honor, especially to the defenseless? If their knights won't teach them to behave, then I must."

Lyanna Mormont looked as though she'd found a new hero. All her life she'd believed herself to be the namesake of a beautiful maid, taken and raped to death by an evil prince. The real Lyanna Stark they were seeing bore no resemblance to the story.

The Prince of Dragonstone looked just as intrigued. "They will never forget the lesson, my lady, I'm sure of it. To be humiliated at the joust in front of the largest tournament audience ever gathered; well, that's no small thing! Now, if your father won't allow his daughter to joust, how did you learn to ride so well?"

Lyanna's chin went up in defiance. "I did not learn to _joust_ , your grace. I never said I didn't learn to _ride_. I am a Stark of Winterfell, and the best rider in the whole of the North! They all say Lyanna Stark is half a horse; ask anyone."

"There's no need," Rhaegar answered, helping Lyanna remove the last of her armor and filling the pieces with small rocks to sink them into the lake. "I've seen you ride, Lady Stark, and I know enough of jousting to appreciate a master of the art; I believe you."

Lyanna reached for her weirwood shield, the last of her mystery knight getup, but the prince stopped her.

"My lady, the king demanded that I find the mystery knight. I cannot give him that, but please, let me take this shield as proof of my search."

The girl frowned. "Would that not make the king angrier?"

"Perhaps," Rhaegar answered, "but there is no other option."

"You never thought of giving me up at all, did you?" Lyanna asked, incredulous. "Why? I am nothing to you."

The Prince's eyes flashed indignantly. "Lady Stark, I will not sentence a lady to death for knocking some smug squires out of the saddle! He is my father and my king, but I cannot do what he asks, do you understand?"

Lyanna nodded slowly.

"My father has very good spies, however," Rhaegar said quietly. "When you return to camp, tell no one of our meeting, and say nothing of the mystery knight."

"I won't," Lyanna agreed, sounding shaken. Bran realized that until this moment, she'd been unaware of the very real danger she'd been in.

The Prince took Lyanna's hand in his, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. Bran's aunt blushed at the gesture. Sansa, standing next to Bran, was smiling at the lovely picture the couple made.

"Take care, Lady Lyanna," the Prince of Dragonstone told her. "It is a shame you cannot advance in the tournament. I would have cheered for you, and for your noble cause."

"Would you have given me your favor to wear, your grace?" Lyanna asked, recovering her composure with a jape.

"Gods, she really was like Arya," Jon muttered. If the King in the North had tears in his eyes, no one mentioned it.

Rhaegar Targaryen grinned. It was Jon's smile, and just as rare. "Certainly; and then you'd be obliged to crown me King of Love and Beauty in return. Elia would laugh herself silly! But Cousin Robert might have something to say about that," he added sardonically.

Lyanna scowled. "That man!" she cried. "He's been drunk every night so far, and he can't see a serving wench without grabbing at her ti—er—chest," she finished awkwardly, remembering too late that she was in the presence of royalty, and not her uncouth brother Brandon.

The prince raised an eyebrow at her language, but he looked more amused than offended. "I take it you're not pleased with your betrothal?"

"Of course not! Why would I be pleased with a man who claims to love me in one breath, and is inviting another girl to his bed in the next? I don't understand what Ned sees in the big oaf."

"I can't say I do, either, but he _is_ family, so I can't speak too ill of Lord Baratheon," Rhaegar said, shrugging. "Now, I must return to my father, but before I go; my lady, may I see you again? Your conversation is most refreshing after years of King's Landing intrigue."

Lyanna shrugged in return. "I'll be here until the end of the tournament, your grace, and then I'm going to Riverrun for Bran's wedding. You may see me anytime you wish."

"Tonight, then. Here by the lake, after the feast," the prince suggested, surprising Lyanna.

"When?"

"The hour of the wolf, of course," Rhaegar Targaryen said with a grin that transformed his face, from its usual unearthly, sad beauty to a human of flesh and bone. "Until tonight, my lady."

As Lyanna disappeared, Bran decided to show them one more thing, for Jon's sake as well as the council's. It was all well and good for Rhaegar and Aunt Lyanna to have been in love, though some would still resent them for starting a war—but Bran was sure Jon would meet his aunt Daenerys soon, and he would do so with more confidence if he knew the truth of it all. A bastard love-child was one thing; the trueborn heir to the Iron Throne was an entirely different thing.

Bran concentrated once more, and Harrenhal jumped further away. They were now on the Isle of Faces, on a different day, in a grove of ancient weirwood trees, each with its own face. The trees swayed in the wind, scattering the grove with blood-red leaves. Underneath the largest weirwood stood a pair of lovers.

Prince Rhaegar, tall and handsome and dressed in his house colors, draped his dragon cloak around the shoulders of Lyanna Stark, radiant in a wedding gown of Stark gray and white. A few feet away, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent looked on, accompanied by several Green Men. The new princess stood on her tiptoes to kiss her tall husband.

"Gods, what Robert Baratheon would have thought of this," murmured Ser Davos, earning some weak chuckles.

"She looks so happy," Jon said, so quietly that Bran barely heard him. "I want to _shout_ at them; you _idiots_ , the realm is about to go to war because of you!"

"If it hadn't been them, it would have been something else, Jon," Bran assured him. "The Mad King would have burned another Lord Paramount for a perceived slight, and everything would have fallen apart anyway.

"He's right, your grace," Lord Royce answered. "War was inevitable as long as Aerys remained on the throne."

"I know," Jon replied, still watching his mother with the eyes of an orphan. "But did it have to be _them_?"

As much as it pained his cousin, Bran could see his stunt had already borne fruit. Men and women who had spent more than twenty years cursing the Targaryen name were watching Rhaegar with contemplative faces, remembering the promising man he'd been before the war. If anyone on the council had planned to use Jon's Targaryen heritage against him, they'd have a harder time doing so now.

Bran's head was pounding, as it usually did after a long vision. He took his audience back to their bodies in Winterfell. He had much to do as the Three-eyed Raven, but that was for him alone. Sansa would take care of their home, and Jon would lead the army of the North against the Dead, while Bran sought a permanent solution to the White Walker problem. The North was in the best possible hands.

* * *

 _I am officially caught up to Ao3 on this site now, and_ Aemon the Dragonwolf _is a year old! I can't believe I've stuck to it for so long; my muse has ADHD and likes to jump fandoms in the middle of stories (picture me hiding from my Tolkien-verse and Avatar-verse subscribers here)._

 _Anyway, let me know your thoughts! I thought it was necessary for Bran to actually show his powers instead of just saying things he had no business knowing without any explanation, and even if the show has no weirwood paste, this is a hybrid story that steals things from the bookverse when it suits. Also, what is this show nonsense about going to war for no reason? Aerys was INSANE and burning people alive! War was inevitable!_

 _Next time, Dany lands in Westeros!_


	19. Banishing Nightmares, Dany I

_Happy new year, y'all! I'm back! I didn't mean to take so long, but there was some serious rewriting going on. You may thank Queen KK for this chapter. I was all ready to cut my losses with Dorne, kill some Sand Snakes, and move on as painlessly as possible, but she asked me to do Dorne the justice the show did not. I can't resist an appeal to book purism, so after painstaking research and too many lists of pros and cons and who goes where, three months have gone by and here you go._

 _Show Dorne never happened in this universe. Jaime wasn't there (he was in the Riverlands), Arianne exists, and Doran and Trystane are alive. While Cersei was a prisoner of the Faith, Arianne Martell tried a harebrained scheme to make Myrcella queen instead of Tommen, and instead, a rogue Dornish knight tried to kill 'Cella to provoke a war. So poor Myrcella is not dead, but she's scarred, her mother believes she's dead, and Tyrion is understandably pissed off. We're going with book Dorne, or at least, as close as we can go without introducing Young Gryff, the Golden Company, and a possible Blackfyre threat. I'm not GRRM and I'm not going to try to include his 10,000,000,000 plot threads._

 _If you hate all things Dornish, don't panic. A story that focuses on House Stark and the North won't have a lot of room for Dornish scheming, but Dany had to land somewhere and Dorne made more sense than Dragonstone. We'll return to Winterfell for the next chapter, and then hang on to your breastplate nipples, because all hell will break loose._

* * *

 **AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 3 - Banishing Nightmares**

 **Dany I**

Dany woke with a jolt. She'd gone to sleep in her cabin on the flagship of her fleet, but a rough wave had sent her tumbling off the side of her bed. Ignoring the ache in her shoulder and hip, Dany stood and walked unsteadily to the porthole. Though it looked to be an hour or two after dawn, the sky was gray and the sea was churning violently. Far above the fleet, she could see her dragons soaring, free at last.

The Queen of Meereen sighed in annoyance. They had been sailing for almost five weeks. Moving this many soldiers took quite a bit of supplies, and her Greyjoy sailors had steered them well away from the ruins of Valyria, slowing down the fleet and forcing them to stop and resupply in Volantis and Lys. Though some of her Dothraki had adjusted well to crossing the Narrow Sea, many of her riders had succumbed to seasickness, and lay on their hammocks, weak and miserable, waiting for the journey to end. Their horses were suffering, as well; they looked thin and woebegone, and were constantly nervous.

Dany dressed in a deep red Meereenese gown. Though she had not worn Targaryen colors often in Essos, her Hand had insisted that her Westerosi allies would expect it. She was a dragon returning home, and she meant to look like one. She called her handmaidens into the room and ordered them to re-braid her hair, closing her eyes and ignoring the familiar pulling sensation in her scalp.

The Greyjoy siblings and her Hand sat in the council chamber when she entered, along with Missandei, Grey Worm, and her khals. All looked worse for wear except for the Ironborn.

"How much longer until we reach Sunspear?" Dany asked, taking her seat.

"If the storm lets up, we may arrive before sunset, your grace," answered the Queen of the Ironborn. "If not, we will dock on the morrow."

"Good," Lord Tyrion said, straightening in his chair with a theatrical groan. "I've had as much sailing as I can stand, and our meeting in Sunspear will be quite interesting."

His expression turned dark, no doubt remembering the news the Spider had brought from Sunspear. Dany's Master of Whispers had told them of an attempt to kill Myrcella Baratheon to force Dorne into war, an attempt that had left the girl scarred and terrified, and her cousin (and body double) dead.

Varys attempted to soothe him. "Prince Doran assures me that your niece's attackers will never hurt another child, Lord Hand," he said, quite serious. "and Prince Trystane cares deeply for the Princess Myrcella; he has sworn to wed her, despite her _unfortunate_ disfigurement."

The Imp choked on his ever-present wine.

"Take a look at what _unfortunate disfigurement_ looks like, you cockless wonder," Tyrion spat viciously, pointing to his own face. "Feeding Gerold Dayne to the scorpions won't heal my niece's face, or bring back Lady Rosamund, and it won't comfort Myrcella now that she _knows how insane her mother is!_ " he finished with a shout, standing and throwing his goblet at the wall. " _My sister heard the news and burned down half of King's Landing and made herself queen!_ If Myrcella keeps even a _shred_ of her innocence, I'll eat my breastplate."

"Sit down, Lord Tyrion," Dany commanded, firm despite her own misgivings. Her Hand had confessed, one long, stormy night on the ship, that he'd sent Myrcella to Dorne in an attempt to save her from the war, forgetting that the Dornish _hated_ Lannisters. With just one dishonorable knight, Tyrion's niece had lost her ear, her beauty, and her trust in the goodness of human nature. Not even _Joffrey_ had done so much damage.

"I will trust in Lord Doran's justice," she added, "unless he proves an unworthy ruler to his people."

Dany turned to the Greyjoys expectantly.

They unrolled a large map of southern Westeros, plotting the current position of the fleet. Then they added the position of other fleets and ground forces; Lord Theon and Queen Yara had last seen their uncle Euron on the Iron Islands, but since then they'd sailed east to Slaver's Bay, and now they had returned west. Lord Varys fretted about the Ironborn forming an alliance with Cersei Lannister; Euron Greyjoy had had enough time to do so, especially by raven, and he certainly had the ambition.

"Who rules the Stormlands?" asked Dany, still unsure about the region.

"I don't know," her Hand replied, rubbing a hand across his scarred, ugly face. "Stannis Baratheon followed his Red Priestess to the Wall and took a few thousand with him, but the rest were defeated at the Battle of Blackwater and never rose again. Lord Estermont bent the knee to Joffrey and was a guest at the wedding," he added darkly. "He's one of the men who testified against me, so he may have received the title of Lord Paramount for his efforts."

"Lord Estermont would be a natural choice to rule the Stormlands, though my little birds told me nothing of use about him," Lord Varys said. "The other lords might have protested while Stannis and Shireen Baratheon were still alive, but they met a rather shocking end in the North."

"How so?" Dany asked, raising an eyebrow. Her focus had been on the Ironborn and Cersei Lannister; the Usurper's dour younger brother had been no concern of hers until now.

"He marched his army to Winterfell and got stuck in a blizzard," Tyrion explained. "His Red Witch convinced him to sacrifice his daughter so the Lord of Light would melt the snows and give him victory over the Boltons. He burned that poor girl alive, or so we heard," he finished, shuddering, "and the snows didn't melt, nor did he win. His men deserted in droves before the battle, and went south as soon as they could find enough ships. A few of them passed through the Free Cities, and the story spread."

"That poor girl," sighed the Spider. From what Tyrion had told Dany, Varys had more reason than most to fear and hate witches and sorcerers. Dany shifted uncomfortably in her chair. The Red Priests and Priestesses of Essos were all too happy to preach in her favor, but she wanted no children sacrificed in her name.

"Let's move on," the queen ordered. She pointed to the Riverlands. "What is happening here?"

"Under Lannister control," Tyrion said promptly. "As a reward for butchering Northmen under guest right, Lord Walder Frey is now Lord Paramount of the Trident. The Freys can't hold that position without help, however, so Lannister troops ride to the rescue as needed."

"The Late Lord Frey will not oppose you, your grace," Lord Varys reassured Dany. "He's famous for siding with the winners, and begging your pardon, three dragons and an army of Unsullied, Dothraki, Reachmen, and Dornishmen will look like winners."

"He's not a very helpful ally, however," Tyrion said, "unless you need to cross his bridge to invade the North. And that would be an incredibly stupid move in winter."

Dany caught a haunted, guilty look on Theon Greyjoy's face, and chose to ignore it. Her Hand and her Spider had told her much of the man, and she knew he'd betrayed Robb Stark, the so-called King in the North, only to be caught by the Boltons and tortured for years. If the mere mention of Walder Frey made him squirm, so be it. It would be a reminder of the price of betrayal, should he get any ideas.

She leaned back until her spine touched the cushioned back of her chair.

"Will Prince Doran truly follow me, Lord Varys, when one could suggest his son's death was _my_ fault?"

"Prince Doran is a clever man, your grace," the eunuch told her. "He cannot blame you for his son's foolishness, once the situation has been explained to him."

Dany tapped her fingertips against the arm of her chair. Marring her arrival in Westeros with the announcement of her host's son's death was not ideal. Despite her advisers' opinions, she still doubted. Prince Doran had lost his sister, niece, and nephew because of Rhaegar's madness and lust, or so the tales said. Now he'd lost his eldest son to her Rhaegal. Were the Lannisters _so_ terrible that Doran preferred Daenerys and her children to them?

There was nothing she could do, despite her doubts. They would be in Sunspear soon, and she must present a queen's facade—bold, unafraid, and above all, happy to be home among her people.

With a sigh, Dany turned the conversation to the Vale of Arryn.

* * *

When they finally arrived, Dany disembarked with all the pomp and circumstance of a seasoned queen. Her healthiest Unsullied formed straight columns and marched as one, forming a shield around the silver queen, her companions, and their horses. Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys were resplendent in silk robes of crimson and plum, respectively. Even Missandei dazzled in a yellow gown that made her dark skin glow. The Greyjoys wore more practical clothing, but the kraken of their house shone brightly against the dark leather and mail. Daenerys herself glittered in a red and black riding gown. The small gems and heavy embroidery on the bodice and split skirt weighed her down, but Dany ignored this.

Behind them walked the captains of the Ironborn, and last of all came the healthiest of the Dothraki, their horses' manes shining as the last rays of sun struck them. The Dornish had come in droves to meet the fleet, and were waving lanterns and colorful flags as they cheered and sang. It was, Dany thought ruefully, the sort of welcome her brother had been told to expect.

All of the noise died as Dany's children appeared, far above the crowd. Dany prayed that her dragons would not choose this moment to come down and feed, and a knot of nerves formed in her belly. It did not leave her until they had passed the Threefold Gate and entered the Old Palace. The dragons seemed to have spotted a courtyard or garden inside the palace, because they circled lower and disappeared behind the palace wall. Dany sighed in relief, glad that no Dornish smallfolk would bring charred bones to her tonight.

For the first time in her life, Daenerys Targaryen looked up at the Spear Tower and the Tower of the Sun, with the ugly old Sandship between them. Viserys had not known much about Dorne, choosing instead to rave about the rebels' murder and rape of Princess Elia and the slaughter of their niece and nephew. Dany suddenly realized just how little she knew of the country she meant to rule. The thought was not comforting, especially now, when she could see Dornish nobles waiting at the base of the Tower of the Sun.

Daenerys dismounted and her companions followed suit. Quickly, stablehands appeared out of nowhere to take the reins of their horses, leaving the queen free to walk the rest of the way. The men and women she passed bowed gracefully. Dany approached the only man who remained sitting; it was Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne.

"Welcome, your grace," he said kindly. "Forgive me if I do not stand; I have recently returned from the Water Gardens, and the journey has tired me greatly."

"There is nothing to forgive, Prince Doran," Dany replied politely. "It was good of you to invite us."

"This is my daughter, the Princess Arianne," her distant cousin replied, motioning for the woman standing with him to step forward. She bowed slightly in a swirl of orange silks and clinking bracelets.

"Queen Daenerys, greetings," Arianne said, giving Daenerys a wide smile. She was at least eight years Dany's senior, but shorter and with a womanly body that left Dany feeling like a child. Her cousin's voice was kind and pleasantly husky, peppered with the Rhoynish drawl of the salty Dornishmen. "It is a pleasure to have you among us at last. My father and I offer you the hospitality of Dorne," she added, picking up a silver plate of bread from a servant. "Please, do eat of our bread and salt."

Dany took a piece, sprinkled salt on it, and ate. Her advisers followed her example, passing the plate back until it had reached Theon Greyjoy. It was odd to do this in full view of the entire Dornish court, but Dany supposed she could not blame them for being curious.

"Let us go inside," Prince Doran suggested, "and I shall introduce you to your loyal subjects, your grace."

The throne room inside the tower held twin seats on a dais; one bore the golden sun of the Rhoynar, and the other the spear of the Martells. Prince Doran's bodyguard wheeled his chair in front of the former, while his daughter took the other seat. Daenerys sat on the chair prepared for her, a cushioned affair draped in red and black, and watched the nobles filing in, trying to guess who they were from Tyrion's and Varys' information. Unlike most children of kings and Lords Paramount, Dany had never memorized the sigils and words of every house. She and Viserys had not had a Citadel-trained maester to teach them such things.

"Welcome, all," said the Prince of Dorne, once they had all been seated. "It is my great pleasure to welcome my cousin, Queen Daenerys, to Dorne at last. I know I speak for many of us when I say we have long awaited this moment."

"Hear, hear," shouted several nobles.

"If you would permit it, your grace," Doran said politely in his Dornish drawl, "I will present my lords, and your loyal subjects."

Dany nodded in agreement. She was getting hungry, and a delicious, spicy scent of food was wafting into the room from elsewhere, but the niceties must be observed. On her right, Tyrion's hands twitched nervously on his lap.

"This is Lord Anders Yronwood, the Bloodroyal and Warden of the Stone Way," the prince began, and a weathered, golden-haired man bowed promptly. "His daughter, Lady Ynys, and her husband, Ser Ryon Allyrion. And this young man is Ser Ryon's son, Ser Daemon Sand. Ser Daemon is one of the finest swordsmen in Dorne, and was squire to my late brother, Prince Oberyn. He serves as my daughter's sworn shield these days."

A terrible grief stole over the prince's tired visage. It was enough to distract Dany from the _very_ handsome face of the Bastard of Godsgrace, a distraction she sorely needed. When the knight, his father, and his father's wife had straightened from their bows, she'd caught a glimpse of beautiful blue eyes and a roguish smile.

"Lord Franklin Fowler, Warden of the Prince's Pass, and his daughters, Lady Jeyne and Lady Jennelyn."

The girls were obviously twins, a rarity in the world, and a rarity in Dorne with their bright yellow hair—though perhaps, not as rare as Dany had first thought. There were several fair-haired, and even blue- or purple-eyed lords and ladies in the room.

"Lady Alyse Ladybright, my diligent Lord Treasurer."

"Lord Quentyn Qorgyle of Sandstone and his son, Ser Gulian."

"Lord Trebor Jordayne of the Tor."

"Lady Edwylla Wyl of the Boneway."

"Lady Larra Blackmont, and her daughter, Lady Jynessa."

"Lord Tremond Gargalen of Salt Shore."

"Lord Dagos Manwoody of Kingsgrave."

"Lady Allyria Dayne, representing Starfall in her nephew's stead until his return."

Lady Dayne was another breathtaking beauty, with her crow's wing hair and stunning purple eyes. Dany wondered what her lord and nephew could be doing that was more important than meeting his queen, and then dismissed the thought. The boy was probably squiring for a knight in some distant corner of the kingdom, and the raven had not reached him in time.

"Lord Harmen Uller of Hellholt, and his daughter, Ellaria Sand."

The late Prince Oberyn's paramour was a striking woman in orange silk, more captivating than beautiful, and as dark as Lady Allyria was fair. Her dark brown eyes were friendly and open, and shone as brightly as the jewels pinned to her hair.

"Lady Ellaria is mother to four of my eight nieces, but they are young girls yet," the Prince of Dorne added. "Should you wish it, they will be delighted to meet you at a later time, your grace."

"I would be happy to meet them," Dany agreed politely. She had never dealt much with others' children; even if she'd had the inclination, it was a painful reminder that she would never have babes of her own. But she must appear approachable to her new subjects, and this was only the beginning.

"My brother's eldest daughters are with us, however. This is Obara Sand," he introduced, and a large woman in her thirties bowed respectfully. She wore a tunic and breeches that fitted her well, and carried a spear with the ease of one trained with it. "Nymeria Sand," her half-sister bowed. They were night and day; Obara stocky and mannish where Nymeria was slim and beautiful, though Dany suspected the younger of the two was no less deadly. "And Tyene Sand." The third sister was golden-haired and blue eyed. "Sarella, the next oldest, is away from home at the moment."

Once Doran had introduced every relative and representative of his noble houses, he introduced the few that remained unnamed—the landed knights, and sometimes their children. Dany saw her Hand tapping his hand impatiently against the side of his hair, and wished they were seated at a table. It would have been easier to kick him without drawing attention that way!

"I am grateful, cousin," Dany said diplomatically. "I'm sure we shall have many years of friendship between the Iron Throne and Dorne in the future, and I will remember who stood beside me on the first day. I would beg a favor on behalf of my Lord Hand, however. Lord Tyrion is very eager to see his niece, and we have heard nothing of her since we sailed from Meereen."

The smiles dimmed.

"Princess Myrcella is resting in her chamber," Doran replied finally. "My own maester, Caleotte, is watching over her, as is my son Trystane. Ser Daemon will take you to her directly, Lord Tyrion."

The handsome bastard led the way, and Dany's Hand waddled after him.

"What has been done with the girl's attackers?" Daenerys asked.

"Ser Gerold Dayne and his accomplices will never harm another being," Lady Allyria said icily.

"Oh?" Dany prodded.

"There is an old punishment that the arriving Rhoynar adopted from the native Dornishmen," Lady Blackmont spoke up. "Any man who strikes a princess of the royal house shall be buried up to the neck in the most inhospitable part of the desert. Between the scorpions, the sun, and the thirst, Ser Gerold lived for less than two days."

"Lady Myrcella is not a princess of House Martell, strictly speaking," Lord Gargalen added with a quirk of the eyebrows, "but she _is_ betrothed to a Martell. We thought it fitting, especially since the fiend did more than _strike_ the poor girl."

Daenerys fought a shudder. She was sure that Gerold Dayne had earned every bit of his punishment, but she couldn't help but feel a bit of sympathy for him—and anyone—doomed to such a fate. It had been years since she had trekked across the red waste with three newborn dragons, but she could still remember wasting away to nothing in that terrible, empty land, and the relentless thirst that could make the bravest man despair.

"Come, your grace," Princess Arianne said brightly, pulling Dany out of her unpleasant memories. "We have a mighty feast prepared, to cheer us all before we discuss heavy subjects like war, vengeance, and winter. If you would like to dress for dinner, we shall reconvene in two hours."

Daenerys allowed her distant cousin to lead her to her chambers, with Missandei following. The suite of rooms she'd been given were handsome and furnished in vivid color, but nothing at all like her rooms in Meereen. The sun and spear motif on every wall was an unnecessary reminder that she was now in southern Westeros, and would sleep in her native land for the first time since her birth.

"I'm home," Dany said quietly to Missandei, once the Princess of Dorne had excused herself.

Missandei smiled. "You are indeed, your grace."

Someone had left her gowns in the Dornish style. They were fit for royalty, but too long and narrow to belong to Princess Arianne; Dany supposed Varys had given her hosts an estimate of her size. Though she'd brought along plenty of gowns, Dany knew it would please Prince Doran more if she went native tonight, and it would save her handmaidens the trouble of pressing all the travel-creases out of her own gowns while she bathed.

She chose a sleeveless purple and gold samite confection, with a matching cape that was more for decoration than warmth, and beaded golden sandals. Her maids brushed and re-plaited her silver tresses, and carefully placed her most delicate crown over the styled hair. As a finishing touch, they found a bottle of scent in the room. The moment her handmaiden uncorked the bottle, Dany was transported to her happiest childhood memories, of Braavos and the house with the red door. The smell of lemon blossoms was unmistakable.

She dabbed some of the perfume on each wrist and at her neck, then left her rooms for the banquet hall. Servants in Martell livery guided her and Missandei, who looked very nice in her own Dornish-style gown of bright turquoise, though there was no need. Dany simply followed her nose.

The banquet was a long parade of delicious dishes; some were spicy, some sweet, and some were both. The mood was jubilant, and Dany wondered how much of that was due to her own presence, and how much was just the natural high spirits of the Dornish. It seemed like tempting fate to celebrate, when her grand army had not been tested against the might of the Lannisters. But there was no doubt that the Dornish could throw a party. Dany had never heard music so lively in her life.

There could be no discussion of death or war in this setting. The war for Westeros lurked in the clever, observant eyes of Prince Doran, and the frowns of Lord Tyrion, but now was not the time to speak of it. Dany's Hand sat next to a pretty, golden-haired girl that must be his niece, Myrcella. She had styled her hair to one side, to hide the missing ear, and she bore an ugly scar on her face, but she seemed happy enough. A besotted Prince Trystane sat on her other side, and was so sweet and solicitous for his betrothed that it made Dany's teeth hurt.

Tyrion Lannister had told her much of his sister, a woman as cruel as she was beautiful. Dany looked carefully at Myrcella, trying to imagine an older, crueler version of her, but it was difficult. Myrcella did not look vicious in the slightest, despite being sister to a brother who had once tortured cats, and later women. It was a relief, thought Dany, that she would never have to meet Joffrey Baratheon, a mad king without any Targaryen blood to explain his lunacy. She owed Olenna Tyrell a great debt.

Dany sat between Prince Doran and Lord Yronwood. Neither man was feeling talkative tonight, though the queen knew it was not for lack of thinking. She'd been warned by both of her Westerosi advisers that Doran was a man who plotted much more than he spoke, and that mountains would fall and seas dry up before Doran Martell ran out of patience. The man had planned his revenge for over twenty years; he could certainly wait a few more hours, and Dany would have to do the same. At the very least, she had tasty new dishes to make the wait enjoyable.

* * *

The jolly atmosphere of the feast had dissipated entirely by the next morning. When Dany entered Prince Doran's solar, she saw serious faces and even sober clothing (by Dornish standards). Princess Arianne and Prince Trystane sat on either side of their father, while the prince's bodyguard kept watch behind his seat. Many of the nobles the prince had presented to her were present; the lords and ladies, if not their younger heirs. Lady Ellaria was there with her father, and so were Prince Oberyn's eldest daughters. Of Dany's party, she had brought along Missandei, the Greyjoys, Grey Worm, and Tyrion. Varys, so used to the shadows, flitted about the edges of the room.

Dany sat on the cushioned chair provided for her. She'd hoped for a private audience with Prince Doran, so they could discuss Quentyn without so many people listening, but it seemed that would have to wait. She was sure Varys would have said something, but she'd be a fool to trust the Spider. According to Tyrion Lannister, it was _Varys_ who had turned her father against Rhaegar, and Varys who had informed the Usurper of her movements. The eunuch had his uses, but Dany would never depend on him as her father had done.

Prince Doran was not loud, but when he began to speak, there was utter silence among his court.

"Some of you have urged me to take action for years," he said quietly. "You have advised me, begged me, even, to avenge my sister and her children by going to war with the Usurper and his Lannister allies. Some of you believed me as weak in mind as I am in body; a craven who did not stir even at the expense of his family."

A few bowed their heads in shame, Princess Arianne included.

"I suppose it was my own fault. I did not take many of you into my confidence, because a treasonous plot known by everyone is a death sentence for all. But there _was_ a plot, and it has been refined and revised as the years went by and new information reached my ears."

The prince paused for breath.

"I know many of you have wondered why my Arianne remains unwed; the truth is that I had planned to marry her to Prince Viserys since his flight to the east. Years later, it became clear to me that this could not be," he added, with an apologetic glance at Dany, "but the plot evolved; Quentyn, I thought, could marry the Princess Daenerys, the _last_ Targaryen."

Dany thought his emphasis on _last_ was a bit strange, even callous, but no one else seemed to notice. A tear fell from Princess Arianne's eye at the mention of her brother, and Prince Trystane bowed his head.

"Quentyn ran afoul of Her Grace's dragons," he said, to gasps from his court. "As a father, I am devastated. As a plotter, I should regroup from the loss and break Trystane's betrothal to Myrcella, to offer him to Queen Daenerys as a husband."

Dany's heart sank, and the younger prince looked at his father in horror. He was comely enough, Dany supposed, but he was younger than herself—a difference heightened by her years as ruling queen—and besotted with another! Surely his father would not be so cold?

"But I will not," the Prince said quickly. "There has been little happiness in recent years; I will not sacrifice my last remaining son's happiness for the hope of vengeance, even if Her Grace found him acceptable. We are kin, albeit distant," he added, "and we could form an alliance even without this marriage."

"Certainly," Dany replied, realizing that the prince and his court were all waiting for her to say something. "My family has broken enough betrothals," she added with an internal wince, thinking of her brother and Lyanna Stark. "And if you wish to see Cersei Lannister removed from the throne she usurped, that makes us natural allies."

Lord Yronwood smiled. It was a smile that promised pain to any Lannister men that crossed his path.

"Then our spearmen are at your disposal, your grace," Prince Doran said, giving her a half-bow from his chair. "My agents in King's Landing tell me that Cersei Lannister has formed an alliance with Euron Greyjoy," he informed them, and Queen Yara grimaced. "His fleet in exchange for her hand. The Reach has been in full revolt since the Usurper Queen blew up the Sept of Baelor with Mace Tyrell's family inside. The Greyjoy fleet is sailing to Oldtown as we speak, and it will be a bloodbath."

"Then we shall meet them there," Dany said bravely. "I have a Greyjoy and Redwyne fleet of my own, and brave Unsullied and Dothraki besides. We'll join our allies in the Reach, and add their strength to ours."

Overall, it was a productive meeting. Without the luxury of a Nymeros Martell prince to marry, Daenerys, Tyrion, and Varys hammered out the terms of their alliance. Prince Doran would serve the new Queen of the Andals, Rhoynar, and First Men as Master of Laws. Lord Yronwood would command the Dornish spears. Ser Daemon would join her Queensguard. Favorable trade agreements with the Iron Throne would make Dorne prosper even in winter.

Ladies Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene Sand would join her court as ladies-in-waiting. A handful of loyal, deadly friends who could disguise themselves as harmless, twittering ladies, Prince Doran told Dany, would be a tremendously useful gift in the Red Keep. And in the future, the possibility of Arianne Martell's children marrying Daenerys' children was left open. Dany did not mention her barren womb. The Dornish would have plenty of rewards for siding with her, and she knew it would cause trouble later on, if new allies had nothing to bargain with.

She was leaving the room, armed with a small pile of agreements for Missandei to copy in her careful scribe's hand, when she caught Lord Varys and Prince Doran whispering together.

"—going on in the North?" the Prince was saying.

"—web of little birds is quite diminished after the war—" the eunuch replied.

"—how was he not executed for desertion?"

"—apparently there was a mutiny, and the Lord Commander was murdered—"

"—what nonsense!"

"Do you know, I've always wondered—"

It was impossible to eavesdrop further without discovery. Daenerys left the solar, wondering what on earth they could be discussing; but it was not important. The North could wait. For now, she had to save the Reach.

That night, Dany dreamed in white. The world was pale and utterly silent. She'd never seen anything like it during waking hours, but she knew it was snow. A figure approached her, and she saw he was casting no shadow to match hers. His eyes were a cruel, sharp blue. Dany opened her mouth to scream, and then...

The dream shifted. The pale king was gone, and so was the snow. Dany was sinking into a churning, black ocean. She fought to return to the surface, over and over. A ship passed her, making no sound except for the creak of wood, and Dany saw a man at the helm. He was handsome, with flowing black hair and an eyepatch over one eye. The other eye was blue and filled with a fierce joy. The captain grinned with blue lips, then lifted a sword and gave a soundless roar. A beast nearby shrieked in pain and rage, and Dany woke with a gasp.


	20. Banishing Nightmares, Sansa V

**AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 3 - Banishing Nightmares**

 **Sansa V**

Having Bran back at home should have been wonderful, and most of the time, it was. Sansa and her handmaidens had gone to work immediately, creating winter clothing for her brother so he would not need Robb's cast-offs, which were quite big on the lanky Bran. He'd grown in wisdom as well as height, if not breadth, and his advice, when requested, was well-reasoned and quite practical.

But there were times when Sansa barely recognized him. At table, the gently-mannered little boy had given way to a wolf, who ate every meal like he'd starved for years. It was all too easy to see that he _had_ starved in that faraway cave. He spent much of his time in the godswood, sitting motionless under the heart tree with blank eyes fixed on nothing. She knew what he was doing, of course, but seeing it still gave her the shivers. After a session at the tree, he'd often retire with a headache, leaving Jon and Sansa to wonder what he'd seen, and whether it was worth the pain.

When he wasn't at the tree, Bran had his Wintersguards—now wearing practical leather doublets with direwolves on the breast, and fur-lined cloaks in the silver-gray of House Stark—take him down to the crypts, where he'd stare at the tombs of their dead family for hours and say nothing. The sight of the new arrivals in the castle brought him pain, and he avoided them whenever possible. Jon and Sansa knew why, but they didn't know how to help Bran with his remaining guilt.

The former prisoners of the Dreadfort, sunken and beaten as they were, had taken to the spearwives' offer with surprising enthusiasm. Though a few women had refused, protesting that they couldn't fight, most had been eager to learn. A tall, fierce, black-haired spearwife named Maesha led the women who had chosen swords, while a pretty redhead that Sansa didn't know led those who now carried daggers. Lady Meera, Bran's friend, had begun a class of her own. Her people drilled with spears, and Meera's gentle encouragement was producing wonderful results.

"Aren't you interested in learning?" Jon had asked her one day, as they both looked over the handful of women learning the ax with Lyanna Mormont and her master-at-arms.

Sansa laughed. "Jon, I have twelve guards following me around, and you, _and_ Ghost. It's hardly necessary."

"It couldn't hurt," Jon insisted. "One moment of carelessness and you might be alone."

"I'm not a fighter," Sansa insisted.

"You don't know that until you try," her king replied stubbornly.

"Jon," Sansa said, gently but firmly. "I am not Arya, or Aunt Lyanna."

"I never said you were!" he protested. "I'm trying to ensure that you can protect yourself when I'm gone, that's all! Training our smallfolk is all very well, but you have more enemies than they do."

He was right, of course, but Sansa could not even imagine shoving a spear or a dagger in anyone's heart. Even when she'd dreamed and prayed for Joffrey to die, she had not wished to do it herself, except for one wild moment, when he'd made her look at her father's head. Did that make her weak? Jon would never say so, even if he thought it.

"I doubt Cersei Lannister has time for me, now that your aunt Daenerys is heading her way with an army of Dothraki and Unsullied," Sansa told her cousin breezily. "If she did, she'd send an assassin to poison me like they poisoned Joffrey; and no dagger can save me from that."

They _had_ employed food-testers after Jaime Lannister had suggested it, knowing all too well that Cersei despised Sansa and would love to see her dead. So far, the food-testers had suffered nothing more than sore heads, when Jon was particularly troubled and overindulged on ale.

"I don't want to leave you unprotected," Jon replied. "Any moment now, I might get news from the Wall and I'll have to go. I can't send my army to fight without me, especially when I'm one of the few with Valyrian steel, and one of the few who actually _fought_ these things before," he said, placing a hand on the hilt of Longclaw. Though he'd owned Blackfyre for weeks, he still held on to the sword his Lord Commander had given him. Sansa had not thought him so sentimental; perhaps it was less about surrendering the old sword, than about accepting the new one, and all the history and responsibility that came with it.

"And you'll leave me here," Sansa said heavily. It was logical, of course; she wasn't a fighter, Jon had named her his heir, and she was Lady of Winterfell to boot. This was her place, not the Wall. But the thought of watching Jon leave, perhaps forever, was dreadful. He'd been her constant companion since her journey to Castle Black, her home before winning back Winterfell—her _only_ family until Bran's return.

"Do you realize how long it's been since three Starks were in the same place?" she asked Jon with a pained smile.

"You girls and Father in King's Landing," Jon replied, "or mayhaps Robb and the little ones, before he rode south."

"And we'll be two again, while you go north like the Last Hero," Sansa murmured. "I don't need weapons, Jon; I need to know you'll come back."

"I thought you said not to make those kinds of promises."

Sansa looked up. Her brother-turned-cousin was only a few inches taller than she, and his gray eyes were very serious as he peered down at her.

"I know you're a man of your word," she explained, stepping into his arms. "If you say you'll come back, then you will, even from death."

Jon held her in silence for a moment. Sansa was going to miss his hugs, frequent as they'd become. She didn't know if Jon had always been so tactile, and she'd never noticed in her childhood snobbishness, or if he'd become starved for physical affection at the Wall. It didn't matter.

"Then I'll do my best to return," he said at last. "But let's not say farewell until we have to; Edd might be handling the wights just fine, with all the help we sent him," Jon said.

It sounded like he'd failed to convince himself. He certainly hadn't convinced _her_. Things rarely went so well for the Stark family.

* * *

A few days later, Jon had sent Geisa the Wintersguard to find Sansa and bring her to the crypts. There she found Bran in his chair, and Jon beside him, standing in front of the newest tombs.

"It's finished," Jon told her, and Sansa saw that Rickon now had a statue in front of his tomb, like Father. After taking back their castle, Jon had found some papers in the solar, detailing the commission of Lord Eddard's statue. The stonemason had kept it in his shop, finished but safe from the Boltons, and Jon had kept to Father's tradition instead of the ancient Starks', commissioning a statue for Rickon even though he'd never been Lord of Winterfell. The two stood a few feet apart, with an empty tomb between them. If they ever recovered Robb's bones, they would rest between his father's and brother's.

"They look wonderful," Sansa breathed, admiring the statues. The stonemason, a quiet man who had lived at Winterfell all his life, remembered the little boy Rickon had been. With Bran's presence, it was easier to imagine what an older Rickon should have looked like, had he not died a prisoner of the Boltons. Unlike the real Rickon, the boy in the statue was grinning, much like Robb used to. The stone Rickon was stocky and strong, not the half-starved, feral wildling Jon had seen running across the battlefield. At Rickon's feet slept a stone direwolf, much like the ones keeping the Kings of Winter company, down in the older levels.

"That doesn't look anything like Shaggy," Bran said, looking down at it with critical eyes.

And yet, the wolf lay on a plinth with a neatly engraved SHAGGYDOG. It had always been a childish name, but it seemed even sillier now, set in stone among all the stern Brandons and Torrhens and Rickons of the past. If any Stark lived long enough to visit in a few centuries, they'd see the boy with his wolf and wonder at the cruelty that had placed him and his pet in the crypts so young.

Rickon's plinth told only the barest portion of the story.

RICKON STARK

292 A.C. - 303 A.C.

PRINCE IN THE NORTH

MURDERED BY RAMSAY SNOW OF HOUSE BOLTON

"Shaggydog was so wild that he'd never stay still as a pup," Jon was saying. "I doubt that would have changed as he grew. Mayhaps Doric should have carved a blur of movement instead, but the poor man only had Ghost for a model."

Bran, smiling slightly in response, handed Jon a simple sword, small enough for a boy. Jon leaned over Shaggydog's stone twin and placed it in Rickon's hands, as was tradition. "Sleep well, brother," he said softly, and Sansa blinked back tears.

They moved a few feet to their left, now standing in front of Father's statue. There was no wolf at his feet, but he bore the Hand of the King's pin on his breast. The plinth under his seat, commissioned by Robb by raven, read:

EDDARD STARK

258 A.C. - 298 A.C.

LORD OF WINTERFELL

WARDEN OF THE NORTH

HAND TO KING ROBERT I BARATHEON

EXECUTED BY JOFFREY, SON OF THE QUEEN

Even cold in his grave, Eddard Stark would refuse to name Joffrey the rightful king of Westeros. Sansa felt no small amount of satisfaction about that, though it was such a small—and some would say silly—thing to think about. The statue of her father sat in his carved chair, as solemn in death as he'd been in life, though there were a few features that didn't quite match Sansa's memory.

"Doric asked if he could use me as a reference to touch up the face," Jon told her apologetically, noticing her frown. "He hadn't seen Father in some time."

That made sense. The nose the mason had given Lord Eddard was wider and longer than Jon's, but not quite as severe as Father's and Uncle Benjen's had been. The shape of the eyes was wrong too, more Jon than Father; though the long face, the trimmed beard, and the heavy brows were just as Sansa remembered.

"I saw him here," Bran told them quietly. "When Father died, Rickon and I had the same dream; Father was down here in the crypts, and he was worried. It was something to do with Jon, but I didn't understand what it was at the time. The dream was so vivid that I asked Hodor to bring me here, and see if Father was truly in the crypts."

"Well, he can rest easy now," Jon said heavily, producing another sword. "The secret is out, his honor is restored, and no one tried to kill me—for my Targaryen blood, at least," he amended, his face darkening at the thought of the mutiny.

He placed the sword on Father's lap, resting on the stone gloves, and stepped back with his head bowed. The sword didn't look right; Ice had been Father's sword, and any other looked oddly small in his hands, but this was the best they could do. Until Jon's friend Sam found a way to reforge dragonsteel, Ice would remain in two pieces, and Valyrian steel was too valuable and scarce to leave in the crypts.

"Sleep well, Father," Sansa whispered, holding Bran's hand tightly in hers.

There was little else to do here. They lifted Bran into the same basket-and-pulley contraption the masons used to haul stones up and down, and Jon dragged his chair up the narrow stairs, meeting the greenseer outside. Once he was seated once more, Bran wheeled himself to the godswood, followed by four shadows in gray cloaks.

That evening, as Bran slept off his headache, Jon and Sansa sat in his solar as they usually did. Jon plucked absently at his father's harp, probably going over his duties for the next day. He was very meticulous about such things, and had been since his days in the Night's Watch. Sansa, however, was a bit more troubled.

"What is it?" Jon asked at last. "You look like something's been bothering you all day. I didn't want to push, but going by your face, it's serious."

"I had a strange dream," Sansa admitted, setting her mending aside. "It didn't feel like a dream at all, but I was in the kennels, and I was short. I could smell the kennelmaster like he hadn't bathed in a year."

Jon's fingers stopped moving.

"You had a dog dream?" he asked, his lips moving into a smile.

Sansa frowned. "Is that what it was?"

The King in the North put down the harp. "Well, I'm a warg and Bran is a warg for sure; he says that Rickon was, too, and it's likely that Robb could warg into Grey Wind. I wouldn't be surprised if you're one too, Sansa, and you never found out because Lady died so soon. You _did_ say you dreamed of her, once or twice."

"I did," Sansa said, "but—how do you control it?"

"Practice," Jon replied, shrugging. "At first, I could only see what Ghost was doing in my dreams. The day Littlefinger escaped was the first time I warged intentionally, while wide awake. It should be easier with dogs, because they're so used to doing what humans tell them to do. You should ask Bran, though; I'm sure our Three-eyed Raven knows more about it than I do."

"Yes," Sansa replied, "and it would give us a reason to talk about something relatively normal."

Jon laughed suddenly, and the sound of it was oddly bitter. "Look at the state of us! Throwing our consciousness into the head of a dog is considered _normal_ in this castle!"

"It bothers you too," Sansa sighed in guilty relief. "You've been so quiet that I wasn't sure. I thought it was just me."

"Of course it bothers me," Jon replied frankly. "All those years at the Wall, I imagined you all the same way you were when I left. You've all grown up, and I expected that, but I didn't expect that my little brother would turn into an all-knowing bloody greenseer who spends half of his days having visions! I barely recognize him," he added quietly, defeated. "And if Arya comes back as changed as Bran, I'm afraid I won't recognize _her_!"

"Do _I_ bother you, then?" she asked her cousin, dreading his reply.

"No, Sansa," he answered gently. "It bothers me that you suffered so much, but it's different with you. I barely remember you as a carefree child, running around and playing with me. You were always so proper, so eager to be a grown-up like your mother, that the changes aren't as visible in you."

It hurt to hear it. There were many things about Jon—his habits, his facial expressions, his likes and dislikes at dinner—that she'd never known, and she didn't know if he'd always been this way, or if his death had changed him. If she'd spent more time with Jon as a child, perhaps he would have noticed the changes in _her_ as well as Bran. Though maybe, it was their initial distance that had allowed Jon and Sansa to grow so close _now_ , without their notions of what the other _should_ have been to ruin their happy reunion.

If that was the case, it was the single benefit of her very poor childhood decisions, Sansa thought ruefully.

"Come on," Jon said, leaving his father's harp on the table and extending a hand to Sansa. "Let's go to bed. If you have another warg dream, just ride it out, and see if you can will the dog to do what you want. You can ask Bran about it in the morning."

* * *

Though it took some time, Sansa adjusted to the new normal, no matter how strange. She grew close to Kyra in particular, out of her late husband's bitches, and slowly learned to warg as Jon and Bran did. She didn't know if she'd ever need the skill, but the animal was a part of her now. It made Sansa feel fierce, bold as she'd only felt once before, on the day she'd sentenced her husband to death. Warging was unladylike. Warging was a savage northern talent, and her mother and septa would have been horrified.

Sansa loved it. There was nothing quite like running free in the body of another, especially one who didn't need to be courteous and brave all the time.

She made sure Kyra received the best treats when she visited the kennels. Though she didn't believe herself capable, she hoped her influence could tame the savage beasts into proper hunting hounds. After all, if a pack of mistreated dogs, beaten and starved by their owner and trained to be man-killers, could reform, then there was hope for the _humans_ the bastard had touched.

Out of those humans, too many were familiar. While visiting the women who had refused to take up weapons, Sansa caught sight of a face she'd known once, now pinched with fear and pain.

"Beth!" she gasped in surprise.

Beth Cassel, her old playmate, dropped the shift she'd been mending and flinched, as though she expected a beating. Sansa's heart broke for her.

"Oh, Beth," she said, quieter. "I am glad you're home," she said, helping her old friend gather her dropped items. Her once lovely auburn hair, similar to Sansa's in color but curly, was now dull and cropped quite short. While Beth the girl had been plump and jolly, Beth the woman was painfully thin, and looked ten years older than she truly was. She was missing both of her pinkies, and her delicate nose had been broken at least once.

"Your g—grace," Ser Rodrik's daughter stammered inaudibly, bobbing into a perfect curtsy and avoiding eye contact.

Sansa winced. She'd made Jon wear a crown around the castle to show the smallfolk that there was a King of Winter once more, that the North was united under the Starks, and their needs would be tended to. She had not realized how the crown would alienate them from the people of Winterfell, and her circlet of winter roses felt heavy as she watched her former friend sew like her life depended on it.

"Beth, I hope you will take tea with me one of these days," Sansa offered, feeling helpless. "I was always a friend to you, I hope, and that will not change because Jon made me a princess."

Beth had frozen like a hunted deer, and finally nodded. Sansa had fought the urge to flee, and gone about her business with a heavy heart.

She'd cried herself to sleep that night, mumbling an explanation to Jon that must have made little sense, and clinging to her cousin for comfort. Seeing Beth in that state had reminded her of Theon, and Ramsay, and of the dark, endless nights of her second marriage. That had brought on worse nightmares than usual, prompting Jon to reach for his harp. He had not learned to read music yet, but he had memorized a few simple tunes by now.

Jon, good man that he was, had not dropped the matter after that. Though his duties were endless, Sansa heard him ask the servants to prepare a room for Beth in the castle. When Sansa looked inside, she found that Jon had brought some old dolls, children's books, and games that she, Beth, and Jeyne had once played. Though the glass gardens were in too sorry a shape for winter roses to bloom, Jon had scrounged up colorful tapestries from other rooms, and turned Beth Cassel's room into a chamber fit for a princess.

"What are you doing, Jon?" Sansa asked, amazed.

He turned to look at her with his most solemn face, but his eyes were kind.

"I'm creating a room without any bad memories. Perhaps this is a bit childish," he admitted, pointing to the dolls, "but Beth is Arya's age, and she had to grow up far too quickly. I suppose I'm practicing, in a way," he said quietly.

The truth was awful out loud. He was afraid that Arya would be just as damaged, or worse, if she ever returned. Sansa feared it too, but she and Arya had never understood each other as well as Arya and Jon. If their fierce she-wolf of a sister returned afraid of her own shadow, it would shatter Jon's heart as nothing else could.

Sansa took one of his gloved hands and tried to smile at him. It didn't work as well as she would have liked. "It was a good idea, Jon, and you're the only king I know who would take the time to do it himself. I'll bring Beth here; she shouldn't have to stay in the Cassels' cottage alone."

Integrating the new arrivals into Winterfell's day-to-day life was a slow, painful process. Like many of the other survivors, Beth Cassel spoke in monosyllables and shakes of the head, except for the occasional "your grace" and "thank you." Sansa invited her to sew, or to take tea with her and her maids, but did not push, hoping Beth would appreciate her newfound freedom. She had employed several of the rescued women in the castle, and encouraged the lords and ladies of the North to follow her example.

The quiet sewing group had turned more lively with the arrival of the Manderly girls, the first of Jon's potential brides. Though Jon was a king, he had no holdfast of his own, making him very appealing to the few heiresses left in the North. Sansa knew Lord Manderly wanted Jon for his Wynafryd, and he was merely the first and the boldest; Had little Erena Glover been older than seven namedays, Lord Glover might have offered _her_ up instead.

So far, the King in the North had shown little interest in either lady. He was always polite, but not flirtatious, and so busy that Wyna and Wylla rarely saw him, except at mealtimes. Watching Jon's stilted conversations with the girls, Sansa wondered how his romance with Ygritte had ever come to be. She'd thought green-haired Wylla, with her fearless personality and passionate opinions, might have gotten at least a blush from her serious cousin, but she had not.

Perhaps it was an advantage. As long as Jon remained unmarried, bannermen and potential allies would continue to curry favor, hoping Jon would choose their girls. With Jon refusing to marry off his family for political advantage, it was inevitable that his own neck would go into the noose, sooner or later. Sansa thanked the gods that Cersei was not likely to propose a marriage, though she wondered what Jon's aunt Daenerys would make of him, if she ever arrived.

A fortnight after the arrival of Myriame Ryswell, granddaughter of Lord Rodrik Ryswell and another potential Queen in the North, Jon stormed into the solar with a groan of irritation. He slammed the door, leaving a puzzled Brienne and Soren to stand guard outside. Sansa put down her book.

"What is it?"

"These Ryswells!" he exploded, taking off his crown so he could rub at his temples. "Lord Roger has been following me around all day, extolling the virtues of his daughter—who is _eleven_ , by the way—and at the same time, his sister is sniping at me and refusing to allow our excavation."

He sank into his chair with a grimace.

"Why is Lady Dustin sniping at you?" Sansa asked calmly, reserving judgment until she'd heard it all.

"She says it's my fault her husband died, and Father left his bones at the Tower of Joy," Jon replied, indignant. "I didn't ask to be born! I didn't ask my parents to run off into the mountains of Dorne, and I most definitely didn't ask William Dustin to ride down with Father to rescue my mother, but it's _all my fault_ , so she won't let us dig for dragonglass in the old barrows. If the Night King comes down here, I'm sure she'll blame me for _that_ , too, after refusing us the weapons that could save thousands of lives!"

"Mayhaps the Brotherhood had the right of it," Sansa thought aloud. "We should have gone in there without asking. She may be Lady of Barrow Hall, but you're King in the North, and the barrows don't belong to her. What can she do to stop you, truly?"

"If we did that, she might order her people to refuse to sell any goods to our diggers; they'll have only the food they take with them, and no shelter except what they bring." He took an angry breath. "I don't understand people who let spite get in the way of the common good," Jon sighed. "And I don't know what to do. Maybe it's a team effort, and she won't relent unless I marry her niece."

"Well, we can't have that," Sansa said, scooting her chair closer to Jon's. "It's bad enough to reward houses that would not stand with us against the Boltons. It's worse to reward houses that are holding the key to our salvation for ransom—a king's ransom, at that!"

"They just don't see why we need it," Jon said helplessly. "I'd love to capture a wight and shove it in their faces, but when they see it, they'll all panic. Winter is bad enough without adding monsters to the mix. I'd gladly be taken for a madman or a liar, if the White Walkers never appeared in the North at all, but I don't think that's likely, considering Brienne's report of the Bolton wights."

"Well, perhaps your friend Sam will find another solution at the Citadel," Sansa offered. "What if Horn Hill were built on a secret mountain of dragonglass?"

Jon laughed. "I doubt it, but I appreciate your optimism, Sansa. Truly," he added, facing her. "I could never do this without you."

"I know," Sansa japed. "Without me, you would have sailed off somewhere sunny, to brood in the warmth instead of the cold, and you would never have gained a crown you didn't really want, or learned the truth of your birth."

Jon's crooked smile told her all she needed to know. Even now that he'd seen his mother and father, he would have gladly died as the son of Ned Stark.

"I had a strange dream this morning," Sansa confessed. "I was a girl again, and the king was coming to Winterfell for a visit, but it wasn't King Robert; it was King Rhaegar. Mother and Father were afraid that the king would betroth one of their daughters to one of his sons."

Jon winced. "Have I replaced Joffrey in your nightmares, then?"

Sansa laughed, then kissed his forehead like he usually did to her. "Of course not, silly. You're the younger brother, aren't you? That makes you the Tommen; all you need are some kittens. And the Aegon in my dream was quite a bit nicer than Joffrey, though for some reason, he looked like Tormund, with Brienne's height."

That startled a laugh out of her cousin. "And would you have liked to marry an Aegon Targaryen who looked like Tormund and Brienne's child?"

"I'm not sure," Sansa replied. "Before we had the feast, a red direwolf appeared and we were all chasing it around the godswood. I told you it was a strange dream."

Before Jon could ask anything else, there was a knock on the heavy solar door.

"Enter," said Jon, and one of the new castle errand-boys rushed in, out of breath.

"Message, your grace," the boy gasped, offering Jon a raven scroll. "Maester says it's urgent."

Jon took the scroll, and his face turned grave at the sight of the black wax.

"Is it from Edd?" Sansa asked.

Jon opened it with trembling hands. The message was short, and written in a cramped hand Sansa could not read from her seat. When Jon's face paled, she held out her hand and her cousin passed her the scroll. She read:

 _To Jon Snow, King in the North,_

 _Four cracks discovered in Wall, 200-300 feet high each. Gaps wide enough for men to pass at the base. Rangers report four hosts of the Dead, each led by White Walkers. At least 10,000 marching on Wall. Expect arrival in a fortnight. Send help._

 _Eddison Tollett, Acting Lord Commander of the Night's Watch_

Sansa's hands shook. The scroll fluttered down to the table, and she fought her rising panic.

 _You knew this was coming_ , she told herself. _Jon told you the Dead were coming!_

 _I didn't think they'd come so soon! And now the same Wall that stood for thousands of years is cracking, and Jon will leave, and how can he win this fight?_

"Summon the council at once," Jon told the errand-boy.

"They'll have gone to bed, your grace," the poor boy answered, pale.

"Then wake them!" Jon ordered, his voice rising. He jumped out of his chair and began to pace in agitation. "We must ride to war, immediately. Get everyone in here. Wake Lord Davos and Prince Bran, wake all of them! Let my Wintersguard drag them out of bed by their nightrails, if that's what it takes!"

The boy vanished. Sansa ran to her cousin's side and wrapped her arms around his waist, shivering in sudden fear.

"The Wall has cracks that go halfway up," Sansa said shakily. "How did this happen, Jon?"

"I don't know," he answered, equally shaken. "I know the Free Folk were looking for a horn that could bring down the Wall, but they never found it. And it would be stupid of them to use it now, when they're hiding behind the Wall like we are."

"But the White Walkers could have found it," she realized, her heart sinking further.

"Aye," Jon sighed into her hair. "It has to be magic. And if they tear it down entirely, we'll have no protection."

"If Lady Dustin doesn't apologize for keeping the obsidian to herself, I'll have Kyra rip out her eyes," Sansa decided, furious that a single woman could make life difficult for so many.

Jon leaned away from Sansa, staring down open-mouthed. "That's the most vicious thing I've ever heard you say. Are you sure you shouldn't try warging with a nicer dog?"

"I'm perfectly sure," Sansa replied, stepping away from her cousin to retake her seat. She sat with her hands folded demurely on her lap, but inside she was seething. She would _not_ allow the likes of Barbrey Dustin to decide if Jon—and the rest of the North—lived or died!

Jon's council trickled in, puzzled. Some were still fully dressed, like Bronze Yohn Royce and the Wintersguards. Others, like Ser Davos and Lord Cerwyn, had come in their nightrails, boots, and cloaks. Lord Ryswell, the newest member, had brought along his daughter, Lady Dustin, who was not on the council. Sansa was glad to see her, for once.

"We've received an urgent raven from the Wall, my lords," Jon told them without preamble. "Lord Davos, if you would?"

Jon passed the message to his Hand, who frowned down at the small letters. As he read, his voice grew more and more concerned. Sansa watched the council members carefully. At the mention of cracks in the Wall, a few had scoffed. The size of the cracks had left some wide-eyed. The hosts of the Dead had wiped every remaining smile off their faces.

"I sent twelve hundred men to the Wall with Harwyn Wull," Jon spoke into the deathly silent room. "Between them and the Night's Watch, we've manned nine castles out of thirteen. The tenth has a few dozen Lannister men. But none of them are equipped for this. Fire can destroy wights, but not White Walkers. Only dragonglass or Valyrian steel can do that, and as far as I know, there is only _one_ Valyrian steel sword on the Wall."

Sansa saw Brienne's hand reach for the hilt of her Oathkeeper.

"This," Jon continued firmly, "is why I asked to excavate the barrows of the First Men. We know there is obsidian in some of the barrows, because the Brotherhood Without Banners found it on their journey north. Our men will be outnumbered at least five to one on the Wall, and they don't have the weapons to fight the true enemy."

The king's voice had risen only slightly, but the tone was so cold that Barbrey Dustin flinched.

"I will ride to the Wall tomorrow morning, with a Valyrian steel blade," Jon informed them all in his most royal tones. "Let any man who doubts come along, and see the wights and White Walkers for himself. And let any man who wishes to help ride north to aid the Night's Watch, as Winterfell has done for thousands of years. If the Watch falls, so do we all."

He took a breath. "Should I fall in battle, Princess Sansa must succeed me as Queen in the North."

Jon waited, as though expecting an argument, but no one said anything but Lord Ryswell.

"Your grace," he said quietly, shamefully, "I will lead the search for dragonglass myself."

His daughter did not object.

"It may be too late to help with this particular battle, Lord Rodrik," Jon replied, too worried to be polite, "but if we survive to fight another, your search may save what is left of the North. Now," he added, "some must stay here and govern the North, while the rest of us fight. Ser Davos, I hope you will serve as Sansa's Hand."

"Of course, your grace," Davos replied. Though Jon trusted him implicitly, both Jon and Sansa knew the old smuggler was not much of a fighter.

"I will ride with you, your grace," Lord Royce said at once.

"As will I," added Harrold Hardying. "I promised Lady Forlorn would aid the fight against White Walkers, and so it will be," he said. "That brings our Valyrian steel blade count to three."

"Your grace, let me fight at your side," Brienne asked.

"You were Sansa's sworn shield before you were a Wintersguard, Lady Commander," Jon told her. "I would feel better with you at my side, but only if Lady Sansa can spare you."

Sansa fought the urge to laugh. "Of course I can! I'll be safe at home while you fight ice monsters, Jon! I would prefer it if Brienne brought you home safely, instead of taking tea in my solar."

"Very well," Jon agreed. "Remember, my lords, we destroy wights with fire. Even without Valyrian steel, you can kill _them_ , and leave the White Walkers to those with the proper weapons."

A few others volunteered. The first was Lord Glover, who had once turned them away so angrily.

"I will stand beside you, Jon Snow, as I promised when we named you king," he said. "I have only plain steel to offer, but I will do my part for the North."

"As will I," added a pale but determined Lord Norrey.

"And I," said Lord Flint, his eyes clouded with worry. "I've seen the Wall many times, your grace. Anything that could damage it so is a danger to us all."

"Then get some rest, all of you," Jon ordered. "We ride out three bells before noon. Lady Brienne, I want half of the Wintersguard to remain here with Sansa and Bran. The rest may come with me. Ser Davos, I want ravens sent to every northern holdfast; order them to shelter as many smallfolk as will fit inside their walls."

"Yes, your grace," replied the Hand and the Lady Commander.

Jon dismissed them all, leaving only Bran, Sansa, and Jon himself.

"Well, now the war truly begins," Jon told them ruefully. "I don't know how we'll win this fight, Bran."

Their brother had not said a word since Jon's summons. His blue eyes were bloodshot and haunted.

"What if this is my fault, Jon?" he said, almost whispering. He held out his arm with his sleeve rolled up, showing them the Night King's mark. "What if _this_ is what cracked the Wall?"

"You don't know that," Jon said firmly. "Mayhaps there were spells the Night's Watch needed to repair the Wall, and we forgot them through the centuries. Maybe the Night King grew so strong that it can't hold him back anymore. Let's not borrow trouble, alright? As long as the Wall stands—even cracked—all hope is not lost."

"You just said you don't know how you'll win!" Sansa cried.

"I don't. I'm not going to lie," Jon replied, shrugging. "But I'll do my best anyway. It's all I can do. Bran, you must keep watch on the Wall; if we fail, tell Sansa, and the two of you get out. Go as far south as you can go. Take all who will listen."

"You can't fail," Sansa objected, fighting her panic. "You promised you'd come back. That means you must win the battle, because you'd never leave your men there to die while you ran away."

Jon's small smile gave her a bit of hope. If he could smile, it meant he had not fully despaired yet, like the aimless, paranoid Jon she'd met at Castle Black. A Jon with a purpose would fight, and he would _live_.

He must.

"Edd didn't say how many White Walkers there are," Jon said, looking down at his hands. "I may kill a few, and so could Brienne, Jaime Lannister, and the southron peacock Hardying," he told them. "But what if there are hundreds, or thousands? We just don't know. I can't kill them all with only four swords."

"I'm looking for a better solution, Jon," Bran promised tearfully. "I swear it. I will find something, if there's anything to find. But I have to look through _thousands_ of years of information, and I don't always know right away if what I've heard is useful. That's why my head always hurts," he explained.

Sansa took her brother's hand and squeezed it. "We don't blame you, Bran. We know you're doing your best."

They hugged fiercely then, the last three Starks, clustered around Bran's chair. Sansa hoped it wouldn't be the last time.

Bran retired to his room, leaving Sansa and Jon to walk to the Lord's Chamber. None of them slept well, though Jon put on his best brave face when it was time to leave. For the first time he carried Blackfyre, the sword of Aegon the Conqueror, while Lady Brienne bore his beloved Longclaw. Oathkeeper was now Bran's, though none of them knew what Bran meant to do with it yet. All he would say was that Ice was somehow important to the defense of Winterfell, from snippets of conversation he'd heard in his visions.

Sansa didn't realize she was weeping until Jon kissed her cheek, coming away with wet lips. The important things had all been said the night before; she knew what to do for the North, and Jon knew to come back alive. Still, as she watched her cousin ride out with Ghost and his valiant band of volunteers, Sansa wondered if any of them would return. She wished she still believed in the gods; northern or southern, old or new, she would have prayed to all of them to keep Jon safe.

A timid hand took her own. Startled, Sansa turned and found Beth Cassel, mute as always, offering her silent support. On her other side, Bran did the same, while a sympathetic Lady Meera offered her own wordless encouragement. Wyna and Wylla Manderly had not lost their grandfather, who was, frankly, too fat to ride a horse these days, but they sent her sympathetic smiles all the same.

The princess held on to her brother and her friend and took a deep breath. Then, when the last man had gone and the gates were closed, she returned to her duties.

* * *

 _And that's the end of Part 3, because I like to skip ahead and avoid chapters and chapters of armies marching or sailing across Westeros (and they can't teleport like their show counterparts). Coming up in Part 4, Dany and Euron clash on the Sunset Sea, we'll catch up with Sam in Oldtown, and Jon will lead the North against the army of the Night King. Some other favorites will pop up as well!_


	21. Rise and Fall, Wylis I

**AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF**

 **Part 4 - Rise and Fall**

* * *

 _Daenerys Targaryen, finally arrived in Westeros, must fight for her home on the Sunset Sea. Jon Snow returns to the Wall at the head of an army to face the monsters beyond, while Sansa and Bran hold Winterfell. A lost girl takes a detour on her way home, and a forgotten man faces his ghosts. Across the wide expanse of the Seven Kingdoms, players in the Great Game move and strike in turn._

* * *

 **Wylis I**

Wylis had no idea how long he'd been in this cell. There were no windows, so he could not count the passing days by watching the sun. The Freys no longer came down to mock him, and they hadn't fed him in quite some time. His filthy surcoat, once blue-green and stretched taut over his belly and mail, hung loosely and was covered in muck.

He missed his wife. Poor Leona must believe him dead; otherwise he was sure that with or without Father's permission, his dear wife would have bartered the Harbor itself for his safe return. And his daughters, the jewels of the Merman's Court? They must be married by now, with children of their own. They would not have put their lives on hold because their father was locked in a dungeon, and he wouldn't have wanted them to do so.

His cellmate was in the same boat. Greatjon Umber, Lord of the Last Hearth, lay snoring on the stinking cot he'd been given to sleep on. He'd always been a large man, and a very strong one, but years of poor rations had eaten away at his strength, leaving him rail-thin and weak of body. Jon, too, had left children and grandchildren in the North, and had heard no news of them since the gods-cursed wedding.

The Red Wedding. Wylis remembered the words in disgust. A few of the Freys had come down to mock the prisoners after, and that was the name the Riverlanders had given that _atrocity_. It wasn't right. The gods hated those who broke guest right more than anyone, even kinslayers. Why were the Freys still alive and prospering?

These days, the two Northmen were lucky to receive water, let alone food, blankets, an empty bucket to piss in, or even a candle to see their cramped cell. The dungeons of the Twins had become an imitation of the Black Cells in King's Landing, and Wylis and the Greatjon knew they would go mad if they were to stay here much longer.

A few hours later, when Jon was awake, the two were chatting quietly, trading stories of their families. In the relentless darkness, a friendly voice was all that kept Wylis from screaming himself hoarse in rage and despair. It hardly mattered that Wylis had heard all of the Greatjon's stories already, and vice versa. They'd been reduced to whispers, not for secrecy, but because they were so parched with thirst that they couldn't speak at a normal volume for any length of time.

"Now, Uncle Mors' girl, my cousin Gilliane...she was a true northern beauty," the Greatjon said with a sigh. "She was as tall as Uncle Crowfood, broad in the shoulders and as strong as us lads, but her face was as pretty as a man could wish for. When we were children she was terrified of horses," he added. "My brothers and I, and her brothers, would ride in a circle around her, because she was so scared of falling. We'd make silly faces until she forgot her fear," he said fondly. Then his whisper turned murderous. "Then those wildling _bastards_ stole her right out of our keep. We formed the largest search party in decades. Even Rickard Stark came to look for Gill, though Lady Lyarra was deathly ill at the time."

"He was a good man, Lord Rickard," Wylis said for the hundredth time. "Didn't deserve to go the way he did."

The Greatjon agreed, as always. He was in the middle of his anti-Targaryen tirade when the walls began to lighten. Someone was approaching with a candle. The footsteps, deafening in the silent dungeon, were light, probably those of a woman in soft slippers.

She came into view. It was a Frey serving wench, slight of build and comelier than most. The girl was carrying a trencher of bread and meat, and two mugs. Wylis' gut, silent after days without food, rumbled with sudden interest.

The serving girl said nothing, but slid the trencher through the small gap made for that purpose. Wylis smelled roasted pork.

"Is this a trick?" the Greatjon asked hoarsely. "Your lot left us to starve to death; now you feed us?"

She didn't answer.

"Are you mute, girl, or just stupid?" the big man roared. "What is happening here? Are those poxy, godless Freys playing with us?"

Still, she remained silent. But in the dim light of the single candle, Wylis thought the girl had smiled. Now free of the trencher, she reached up with her candle and lit the long-forgotten torch hanging from a bracket. It flared to life, blinding the northern prisoners until their eyes had adjusted to the light.

When they were finally able to see, the girl was gone. The torch-lit food remained, proving that she hadn't been a figment of their imaginations.

"What in the seven hells are they up to now?" Wylis wondered aloud.

The Greatjon shrugged. "I'll never understand these weasels. Mayhaps this is our last meal, and they'll execute us after."

Wylis' heart sank. He hadn't thought of that. But with King Robb long dead, it seemed that no one cared to ransom the Greatjon and himself. Perhaps they'd outlived their usefulness.

"Well," he said at last, "if this is our last meal, I mean to enjoy it."

He picked up one of the mugs and drank deeply. He was so thirsty that he'd have drunk Walder Frey's piss at this point, but the wine they'd been given was surprisingly good. The Greatjon followed suit, and together, they demolished the warm bread, cheese, and pork until not even a crumb was left. Wylis felt uncomfortably full, but it didn't matter. If he was about to die, he'd die with a full belly.

The day passed slowly, with both men sure they'd be dragged outside and executed. No one came for them. The torch went out. After brooding in the dark for hours, Wylis finally fell asleep on his dirty bed of straw.

When the two prisoners woke, there was a fresh torch burning on the bracket, and another trencher of food. There were two steaming bowls of porridge, fried fish, and boiled eggs, along with mugs of nettle tea. Beside the food lay a small pile of blankets, neatly folded, and their overflowing waste buckets were gone. Empty buckets stood in their place.

"By the gods," the Greatjon mumbled. "Why are they doing this, Wylis? Even if the Late Lord Frey had died of old age, his sons wouldn't change course like this."

"I don't know, Jon," Wylis replied honestly. He picked up one of the bowls and sniffed appreciatively. Nothing had ever smelled so good; he caught hints of cinnamon and cloves, and the bowl warmed his hands nicely.

The servant girl kept coming. It was always the same wench, and she never said a word. Sometimes they were awake when she came, and they pestered her with questions that went unanswered. Sometimes they were asleep, and the smell of food or the sudden light woke them. Whatever her other duties were around the Twins, she came twice a day, every day.

The nameless girl's arrival made it easier to track the time. A week went by, and Wylis and Jon began to regain their strength. Then a fortnight passed, and the two men were able to walk—slowly—around their cramped cell again. A moon's turn after the girl's first appearance, she appeared without food while they did floor-presses to strengthen their arms.

"What are your names?" she asked suddenly.

The Greatjon fell in surprise. Wylis nearly did the same, but caught himself. They stared at the serving girl, incredulous.

"You can talk!" the Greatjon cried.

"Of course I can talk," she said impatiently. "What are your names?"

"Wylis Manderly," Wylis told her. "Son of Lord Wyman of White Harbor."

"Jon Umber, Lord of the Last Hearth," the Greatjon added. "What's yours?"

"Bella." The girl's eyes narrowed. "So you're supporters of Robb Stark?"

"Robb Stark is dead, girl," the Greatjon boomed, impatient. "But yes, we were loyal to Lord Ned and his Young Wolf."

"Not that it matters," Wylis told her gloomily. "King Robb is dead, the Boltons have taken Winterfell, and the Starks are all dead."

Bella the serving wench smirked.

"Your information is outdated," she said, and her Riverlands accent shifted into something more familiar, more _northern_. "Roose and Ramsay Bolton are dead. Jon Snow and Sansa Stark are alive, and they took back Winterfell. He's the new King in the North; I heard it from the crannogmen."

Wylis and Jon looked at each other in amazement. Wylis hardly dared believe her!

"And the south?" Jon asked her.

"Tywin Lannister was murdered on the privy," Bella told them, and her smirk grew. "Joffrey Baratheon was poisoned at his wedding. Myrcella and Tommen Baratheon are dead. Cersei Lannister named herself queen, and blew up the Sept of Baelor with all her enemies inside. She won't last long," the girl added with satisfaction. "Daenerys Targaryen is sailing to Westeros with an army and a navy. Dorne and the Reach are already on her side."

"Why are you telling us all of this?" Wylis asked, more curious than suspicious. Tywin Lannister dying on the privy was too nonsensical to be a falsehood, but what did the serving girl gain by sharing all of this with two prisoners?

"Because you asked," the girl replied, blinking innocently. "And I have a message for you."

"Do you, now?" the Greatjon wondered, intrigued. "Well? What is it?"

"Winter is coming for House Frey," she said, cold as the White Knife that ran past Wylis' home. The accompanying grin was too innocent for her tone, and it made Bella look younger than usual. "So rest, and recover your health, my lords. It won't be long now."

She left without another word.

* * *

Wylis dreamed of wolves. Then he woke, and heard the howling of a real wolf pack outside the castle. They were close, far closer than wild animals had any right to be. Didn't the Freys have any hunters? It was nonsensical to leave the beasts so near their home, where they could get into the chicken coops, or the pig pens, and demolish the castle's food supply. His already abysmal opinion of House Frey dropped further.

Bella arrived with their breakfast then, humming to herself. She was even more tone-deaf than Wylis' father. The Greatjon snored away under his blankets, but the smell of food would wake him soon enough.

"Do you hear that?" Bella asked Wylis, and he caught an almost childish excitement in her eyes. "The wolves are here. How much longer do you two need to recover before you could ride away?" she asked, taking Wylis off guard.

"What? Escape from the Twins?" he choked, spraying his ruined clothes with tea.

"I can get you out without running into a single Frey," she said, quietly confident.

"Today," the Greatjon butted in, sitting up and looking wide awake. "We'll be ready to leave today. Are we the only Northmen here?"

"Aye," she replied. "I meant to free un—Lord Edmure as well, but he's not here. They've taken him to Casterly Rock with his Frey wife and son."

"What about horses?" Wylis asked.

"I have four horses ready for us," she said. "And saddlebags with provisions. We should reach White Harbor in a fortnight, if we don't run into any heavy snowstorms."

Wylis dropped his spoon. The very thought of being home in so little time!

"Your father is probably at Winterfell, Lord Wylis," Bella told him. "The crannogmen told me King Jon summoned all of the northern lords there."

"And my son?" Jon asked her. "Jon Umber? The Smalljon?"

The servant girl frowned. "I heard he turned Rickon Stark over to the Boltons. He died fighting for Ramsay Bolton."

"No!" gasped the lord of the Last Hearth. "He'd never!"

The girl shrugged, but her eyes were hard. "That's all I know. If he betrayed the Starks and he still lives, I'll kill him myself, Lord Umber. You may rest assured of that."

"And who are you, to be so concerned with the affairs of the North?" the Greatjon asked, frowning at her.

Bella's face was carefully blank. Slowly, she raised a hand to her forehead, and curved her fingers as though she meant to scratch at her skin. But to Wylis' and Jon's horror, the skin peeled away entirely, revealing a different face underneath. It was a familiar, _impossible_ face.

"How dare you!" roared the Greatjon, pulling at the cell bars in his fury. "Essosi scum, who gave you the right to steal the face of Lyanna Stark?"

The Faceless Woman blinked in surprise.

"I'm not wearing Lyanna Stark's face," she said, gazing at them with Stark-gray eyes and that long, northern face. "I'm wearing the face of _Arya_ Stark. _My_ face."

 _Oh_. That made more sense; Ned's youngest girl had always looked like her late aunt. But the Greatjon was still as angry as a hunted bear.

"Prove it!" he demanded. "If you're truly Arya Stark, _prove_ it."

The girl bit her lip. She seemed to be thinking hard for a moment, then leaned back against the wall and spoke.

"You came to Winterfell when I was six or seven," she told Jon. "You brought the Smalljon with you. I remember because I saw him sparring with Ser Rodrik and the men-at-arms in the courtyard. I wanted to go and watch, but I was stuck upstairs, sewing with Sansa and the septa," she recalled. "I told Septa Mordane I was feeling ill so I could escape, and when I ran down the stairs, I bumped into you and Father. You were leaving his solar, I think. Father wanted to punish me, but you asked him not to. _That's a proper wolf-child, Ned_ , you told him. _She shouldn't be cooped up inside all the time_. Then we went down together, and you shared an apple tart with me and told me about your grandchildren."

Wylis watched with interest as the Greatjon's face softened. "So I did," he said faintly. He let go of the bars, and knelt on the dirty stone floor. "Princess Arya! I can hardly believe I'm seeing you here, but I'm glad nonetheless, to find a Stark living and breathing."

Wylis knelt as well. It was only right in the presence of King Robb's little sister, and also their rescuer!

"Break your fast before everything gets cold," she advised. "We have a long journey ahead. I'll return when everything is ready."

Wylis and Jon obeyed. They were burning with questions, like where Arya had been all this time, how she'd become a Faceless Woman, and why she'd chosen to come _here_ instead of heading home to Winterfell, but there would be plenty of time to ask.

* * *

Arya Stark returned a few hours later, and led them out of their cell at last. Wylis didn't know how she'd gotten the keys, but knowing she could change faces, it wasn't hard to guess how one slip of a girl could move about the Twins undisturbed. It was eerily quiet; the Crossing was full to bursting with Freys, so where were they?

They followed their king's little sister to a guest chamber in the Water Tower, one of the finest the castle had to offer. Inside, the princess had left two bathtubs full of hot water, soap and oils, combs, razors, shears, and a stack of men's clothing.

"I'm not sure which of them will fit," she said, more practical than apologetic. "but you need good clothes for the trip. Maybe some of those will help."

"Thank you, Princess," the Greatjon told her sincerely. Wylis was quick to agree. He'd sat in his own filth for so long that he didn't dare imagine how bad he must smell. Lady Arya had been kind enough to say nothing, however.

"When you're dressed, come to the Lord's Hall in the east tower. You won't meet any Freys; I've made sure."

And with that mysterious statement, the princess left the two men to their ablutions. Neither Jon nor Wylis wasted any time; hot water was a luxury even in a lord's castle, and they'd had none for far too long. There was no sound except for the splash of water and the slide of soap against wet skin, though Wylis could tell that his companion was thinking deep thoughts.

"What do you remember about the Snow boy?" he asked suddenly.

"Jon Snow?" Wylis replied. The Greatjon nodded, prompting the Manderly to continue. "Not much. He was a quiet one; looked and acted more like Ned than any of the other boys. Lady Stark kept him out of sight, but he'd come alive on the training grounds. He was a natural with a sword in his hands."

"King Robb wanted to make him his heir, when we got the news that Greyjoy had killed the younger boys," Jon told Wylis. "Only a few of us knew it. But the boy was in the Night's Watch. How can he be king then, unless he got out in time and never took the vow?"

"I doubt the North would have chosen a deserter, even Ned's son," Wylis said, scrubbing at his matted hair. "I suppose we'll have to meet him and see for ourselves."

The Greatjon adjusted his position in the tub, which was too small for him, and grunted. "After Aerys the Mad, Robert the Drunkard, Joffrey the Bastard, and Roose _fucking_ Bolton, I'll take a Stark bastard _any_ day, to be honest. Maybe even a deserter."

Their bathwater cooled far too quickly, and it was filthy by the time they'd finished bathing. The two men dried off and inspected the clothes Lady Arya had left for them, passing them to each other and trying them on for size. Wylis was staggered by the tiny breeches and shirts he was wearing now; he'd always been a large man, like his father, and it was strange to look down and not see the generous belly he'd had most of his life. He was, quite literally, half the man he'd been before the Red Wedding.

The Greatjon had lost much of his muscle, but none of his height. Wylis fought back a laugh as Jon laced up breeches that were a full five inches too short for him. Luckily, the woolen socks he'd pulled out of the pile were long enough to compensate.

Lady Arya had been kind enough to find clothes without the sigil of the Freys, thank the Seven. Neither man wanted anything on their person to remind them of their captors, so they dressed in leather and wool of various, but unadorned colors. Perhaps these clothes belonged to Lord Frey's small army of bastards, who would never wear their father's sigil or bear his name. There were supple riding boots, heavy hooded cloaks, and fur-lined gloves as well, to keep them alive in the North.

Once dressed, Wylis and Jon went looking for the Lord's Hall in the eastern tower, where Lord Frey usually sat in his great oaken chair. The lack of Freys—or anyone, really—was getting under Wylis' skin. No castle was _this_ silent, especially not a castle as large and as populated as this one! Had Arya Stark brought an army of Faceless Men with her? Was there plague? Had someone poisoned the family's wine stores?

The hairs on the back of Wylis' neck were standing up. He looked over at Jon and saw the same unease he was feeling. Still, they neared the black oak doors of the hall—the same hall where the Freys had broken guest right—and pushed them open.

There were no humans in the hall, save one. Arya Stark, dressed in men's travel clothes, sat leisurely on the Lord of the Crossing's chair, with her booted legs thrown over the right armrest and her back against the other. She was sipping at a goblet, quite at her ease. That was not what bothered the two men.

The princess was not alone. There was an enormous gray direwolf, bigger than Grey Wind at the time of its death, sitting at the base of her chair. Smaller wolves prowled around the room, which had been torn to shreds. The tables and benches were covered in claw and bite marks. All of the hangings had been torn off the walls, and Wylis smelled dung—wolf's dung, perhaps?—atop the piles of ripped fabric on the floor. The wolves had feasted recently, it appeared, leaving bones everywhere. Wylis _hoped_ the bones weren't human.

As soon as the men had entered, three of the wolves approached slowly, assessing. Before they could cry for help or step aside, the direwolf jumped to life, standing between the humans and her adopted pack. With no more than a snarl from the monster, the small wolves stepped back, cowed and submissive.

Princess Arya abandoned her goblet and stood, approaching them far too casually for a girl in a room full of wild beasts. Now that she'd moved, Wylis saw that the great chair of the Lord of the Crossing had a new, clumsy inscription on top of the carved bridges.

WINTER COMES FOR ALL TRAITORS, it read in crooked, uneven letters.

"Do you like my decorations?" Arya Stark asked them, petting the monster wolf on the head.

"Ha!" boomed the Greatjon. "I can't imagine a better payback, your grace! Where are the Freys now?"

The princess smirked. "That depends. The women and children, and the men that had nothing to do with the wedding, are upstairs in their beds. I made them ill to get them out of the way. The rest are feeding the fish—or the wolves," she added, satisfied.

"Did you do all of this yourself?" Wylis asked, shocked.

She nodded.

Wylis swore. He was torn between admiration and horror; he certainly hoped his daughters would never do such a thing, but he could not blame Arya Stark for taking revenge on her mother's and brother's murderers.

"What about the Freys at Riverrun?" the Greatjon asked. "Lame Lothar and Black Walder were the worst of the lot; Black Walder came down to our cell and boasted that the wedding had been his plan from the start, and Tywin Lannister had only offered a reward for something he'd already wanted to do."

Arya frowned. "Then we'll have to take care of them both, _before_ we go north."

"Your grace," Wylis said gently, "there's no need for this. Your brother is King in the North; you'd be safe there."

"Safe?" she scoffed. "No one is ever safe."

No child should ever be so cynical, Wylis thought in defeat. But he had no counterargument, not for this girl who had lost most of her family in brutal ways. The great wolf seemed to sense distress, because it butted its head against its mistress' hand, offering silent support. Wylis heard a mumbled "Thanks, Nymeria."

"Edmure's in Casterly Rock now," the Greatjon thought aloud. "Even if the three of us went to Riverrun, _somehow_ took the castle—beg pardon, your grace, I'm not doubting your skills, but Riverrun is a mighty fortress—killed some Freys, and took the castle back, we'd need someone to hold it. Mayhaps the Blackfish?"

"He's dead," the princess told them coolly. "The crannogmen told me. The Lannisters threatened to catapult Uncle Edmure's son over the walls, so he yielded the castle. The Blackfish died fighting rather than surrender." There was no grief on her face. That struck Wylis as odd, but perhaps she'd never met her mother's uncle. This strange girl, who wore Lyanna Stark's face but showed no emotions except hatred and rage, made him nervous. It was too easy to think the worst of her. Mentally scolding himself, Wylis looked around the room to buy time.

"What about Jason Mallister, of Seagard?" he suggested at last. "Out of all the Riverlanders, he and the Blackfish were your brother's most valued supporters. A brave man, and honorable besides."

"Patrek Mallister was in the cell next to ours," the Greatjon spoke up. "They took him away a long time ago. If Black Walder keeps him prisoner in Riverrun to make his father behave, freeing the boy will earn your grace Lord Mallister's gratitude and loyalty."

"I like it," the princess decided, though there was no indication of that on her face. "Then we'll free Riverrun from any Lannisters or Freys inside the walls, and send for Lord Mallister when we have his son. Or we could make Patrek the castellan," she suggested.

"He and Edmure are friends, or were," Wylis said, "and he was on your brother's personal guard; a trustworthy man, though not as serious as his father. He's a bit too fond of drinking and whores for that. Lord Mallister might think it a trick, however, if we sent a raven saying the boy is now castellan of the place where he was held captive."

"Then let him visit," Princess Arya replied with a shrug. "Let's go. We'll have time to plan out the details as we ride."

She walked to a nearby bench, ignoring the wolves sitting around it and laying on the table behind it, and picked up an enormous, ugly greatsword. Jon cried out in surprise and joy when he saw it, and he took it from the struggling Arya before she dropped the heavy thing.

"My sword," he said in delight. "I'm glad it's still in one piece! Looks like I'll be needing it soon!"

The next sword she picked up was thinner and quite a bit shorter, adorned with a blue-green gem on the pommel and a carved merman on the bottom end of the grip. Wylis accepted his weapon with a grateful bow and smile.

"Does it have a name?" the princess asked him suddenly. The cold mask seemed to peel away for a moment, revealing the curious young girl beneath.

"Bite, your grace," he replied easily, "like the bay at home."

"Right, I've had enough of this place," the Greatjon said. "Are we leaving today or not?"

Chastened, Wylis armed himself, and put on the heavy cloak as Jon did the same. Princess Arya, too, wrapped a too-long blue cloak around her shoulders, and led them out to the stables. The Greatjon paused only to spit on the ground outside the entrance to the eastern tower. Nymeria the direwolf followed them immediately, and the smaller wolves followed after a tremendous howl from the direwolf that made the former prisoners quake in their riding boots.

As much as Wylis regretted the change of plans, it was incredible to be _free_ again. No one would have written songs about Ser Wylis Manderly of old, but now he was riding off on an adventure that may very well be sung of in the future. One lost princess, two warriors, a mythical creature of the North, and an entire wolf-pack were off to cause chaos ( _more_ chaos) for the Lannisters and Freys. Surely that would make a better song than _The Rains of Castamere_?

He breathed in the cold, fresh air, and rode on after his companions.

* * *

 _I don't know why Arya chapters are always out of sync with the rest, but that's just how it works. She did spend a whole month plotting while Littlefinger healed at the Twins, so there was plenty of time for her to explore the dungeons in her servant getup. Anyway, I meant to give you an outsider's perspective on Arya in the style of GRRM's prologues, with some random character who will never have a POV again. Also, you should know that when I was preparing to write Arya chapters, I ended up reading articles about child soldiers and how messed up they are after, so my Arya won't go from Faceless Assassin to happy girl at Winterfell with no consequences._

 _As always, a big thank you to iamqueenkk for beta reading. Also, to chase manaena and whoever left the anonymous review on Chapter 20: you, and others like you, are the reason why I'm still posting on this site, instead of throwing in the towel and sticking to Ao3. I really appreciated your comments._

 _Next time, we visit the Wall with Jon!_


	22. Rise and Fall, Jon VII

**Jon VII**

Jon's ride north had been uneventful so far, compared to Brienne's trip to bring Bran home. They'd met no one, living or dead, despite the inevitable noise of a small army marching through packed snow. He'd shared everything he knew of the Others and the wights with his lords, hoping they'd share likewise with their soldiers, in case of an attack on the road. So far, all of his precautions had been for naught.

There were many skeptics, but in general, the soldiers appeared more mindful of the old tales than their lords and the maesters sworn to them. Learned men dismissed the tales of wights, White Walkers, and magic as savage nonsense. The common folk of the North, armed with bows and spears and axes of plain steel, listened raptly and looked at Jon in his crown like the Last Hero come again.

He'd found out why after a few hours' march; word had spread across the North like wildfire, first of the old gods breaking their silence at the Winterfell heart tree, and then of the gruesome scars the King in the North bore on his chest and back. Messengers had spread the tales along with Lyanna Mormont's drawings of Littlefinger, and now the smallfolk whispered of their king, Jon the Undying, saved from death to avenge House Stark and save the North in its hour of need.

Jon despised being a legend. He felt more like a mummer in a copy of his brother's crown, and the boy who had once hidden in dark corners to avoid his uncle's wife now cringed at the constant _staring_. Every word he said was taken as a command and obeyed without question, and the deference was jarring after years of being the motherless bastard, _Lord_ Snow. He and Sansa had thought it a good idea at the time, allowing certain important people to see his stab wounds, but what had once saved him from the executioner's block was now driving him mad.

The return of his nightmares didn't help the king's already grumpy mood, either. He'd known from the start that they would come back, now that he had neither Sansa nor his father's harp to keep them at bay, but there was little he could do about it. Jon had expected dreams of the Dead, or of Ygritte, but as the top of the Wall came into view, some five-and-thirty miles away, he realized he was tracing one of his stab wounds with a gloved finger. His breath was coming out in harsh pants, but he could not get enough air. He hadn't seen his former brothers since he'd left with Sansa, Ser Davos, Brienne, and the Red Woman to gather support, and he was not eager to do so again.

"Easy, Snow," Tormund murmured from his place on Jon's left. He'd been the second of Jon's Wintersguard to volunteer to come, and Jon was glad for it. No one understood the king's fears as well as Tormund, who had seen the former Lord Commander's dead body and fought the true enemy beyond the Wall. "Breathe. In and out, go on. They won't stab you again."

"They'd better not!" Brienne spoke up. "Or Princess Sansa will have our heads. And she'll deserve them."

"Aye," Lord Wull agreed seriously.

Joren said nothing. He'd asked them to tie him to his horse so he could scout ahead. Like Jon and his cousins, the man was a skinchanger, though his chosen companion was a peregrine falcon. The wildling Wintersguard sat on his saddle, leaning forward against the neck of his horse, and bound there with ropes, while his mind flew far above them with his bird.

"The murderers are dead, anyhow," Tormund added cheerfully. "The rest are the cravens who let them plot and said nothing."

"I doubt they planned my assassination in the middle of the common hall," Jon objected, forcing himself to breathe slow and deep.

"A crow is a tricksy bird," offered the wildling with a shrug, and Jon suddenly remembered Mance Rayder saying the same thing. Briefly distracted from his murder, he wondered what Mance would say of the new King in the North. Would he thank Jon for taking his people south? Laugh at him for breaking the same sacred oath he'd sworn himself? Or curse him for sending his babe to Oldtown?

The lack of news from Sam was one of the many things worrying Jon. He didn't know if his friend and Maester Aemon had even _reached_ Oldtown, and the North needed the wisdom only the maesters' giant library could provide!

The blue-white band on the horizon grew steadily taller the next day, but it looked no different than when Jon had seen it last. The visible Wall seemed intact; surely, fissures going halfway up should have been visible from afar? Jon didn't know where the damage was, exactly, but he'd be surprised if none of the affected portions were close enough to see from the Kingsroad.

Then, when they'd marched another thirteen miles, there was an audible gasp from several soldiers, which grew into a din of alarmed voices as more and more men pointed and shouted. They were still two-and-twenty miles away from the Wall at Castle Black, but the top of the nearest crack was visible through the trees to the northeast, hundreds of feet from the base. It was wide enough for a thin sliver of sky to shine through.

Jon's heart sank.

Joren, scouting once more, returned to his body amidst the panic, and struggled to pull himself upright. Larence Snow reached over and untied the knots, freeing his fellow guard so he could sit up and report. Jon shook himself out of his panicked stupor and signaled to his lords, who were calming down their men. They joined the king and his Wintersguards at the head of the column, wide-eyed and pale.

"The nearest breach in the Wall is between Oakenshield and Woodswatch, some four miles east of Oakenshield," Joren told them. "One of the crows is riding south to tell us. Most of the men at Castle Black are there already, or marching now. There's another one near Long Barrow, and the other two are to the west, next to the Nightfort and Greyguard. The Eastwatch men will go to Long Barrow."

Tormund swore. "None of the men on the western side have any dragonglass, or dragonsteel. And if we wanted to help, we'd arrive too late."

He was right, curse him. Unless Edd had sent the Brotherhood without Banners west to join Jon's men, all of the properly-armed fighting men (and woman) would be on the eastern half of the Wall.

"I could ride to one of the western castles, your grace," Brienne offered, her gloved hand on the hilt of Longclaw.

"I appreciate the offer, Lady Commander," Jon replied, somber, "but it's at least a hundred and fifty miles from here to Greyguard, and the terrain becomes rocky and difficult west of Castle Black. I'd rather they seal the fissure and retreat eastward, if no help can reach them in time."

"Will normal ice hold back the Others?" Tormund asked dubiously. "We all know the Wall is more than just ice, and it seems strange to fight them with their own weapon."

"I don't know, Tormund," Jon answered honestly, peering up at the Wall and its new gap with weary eyes. "I know nothing of the magic that holds it together. But the Watch has sealed entrances that way before, when we didn't have enough men to garrison a castle."

If Edd didn't give the order, _he_ would, and deliver it quickly with Joren's falcon. Jon had not sent hundreds of loyal Northmen to the Wall so they could see the Others pass and then die, helpless to stop them. Yet again, he silently cursed Barbrey Dustin for her grudge.

"Lord Royce," Jon ordered, and the Vale knight nudged his horse closer to Jon's. "Take your knights to join the Eastwatch men at Long Barrow. You'll need Ser Harry's Valyrian steel if any White Walkers appear. Alyn, hand me a map, please."

The burly mountain clansman reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a simplified map of the Wall and its castles, neatly labeled with castle names, and the roads and paths connecting them. They'd asked Lady Mormont to create half a dozen of them, so Jon could direct his troops. The king unrolled the map, and with a piece of charcoal, drew jagged lines where Joren had reported the damage to the Wall. Then he went over the thin line marking the best trail for the Valemen to use, rolled the map back up, and gave it to Bronze Yohn.

"Where will you be, your grace?" the older man asked, stowing the map.

"I'll go to Oakenshield for now," Jon answered, nodding at the only visible gap in the Wall. "The eastern half of the Wall has more Valyrian steel, but fewer men. If I need to move, it's just over sixty miles from the Oakenshield breach to the Long Barrow breach. I won't be too far away, should you need me."

Bronze Yohn departed at once. The Vale knights had been some of the most skeptical, but seeing the damage to the Wall with their own eyes had shaken them. Jon could see a well-concealed fear in their eyes, especially in the _older_ men. Ser Harrold Hardying bid Jon a short farewell and good luck despite the gloom, then followed Lord Royce and his subdued knights.

 _A man can only be brave when he is afraid_. Someone had taught him that, once. Jon hoped it was true.

An hour after the Vale knights had departed, abandoning the Kingsroad for a winding, little-used track that led to the eastern castles, the rider from Castle Black met the scouts at the front of Jon's column, and was revealed to be Satin.

"Jon! Lord Commander!" he cried as he dismounted, moving as though he meant to embrace Jon, then thinking better of it and bowing instead. Jon was surprisingly glad to see him. He'd made the tragic mistake of sending Satin—along with all of his other friends—away before the mutiny, and it was good to see a friendly face in Night's Watch blacks again.

"I'm not Lord Commander anymore, Satin," Jon corrected him wryly.

"You address His Grace, King Jon of Houses Stark and Targaryen," Lady Commander Brienne said sternly. "You will address him with respect, boy."

 _Boy?_ Jon thought, fighting a smile despite the knot of nerves in his belly. _He's at least two years older than I am, and you can't be that much older than we are, Brienne._

The former Oldtown whore's eyebrows rose, and rose, and rose while Brienne corrected him. He seemed more amused than chastened. "Yes, we've heard rumors, your grace. That certainly explains a few things! But I didn't just come to say hello," he recalled, turning serious. He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a map, then unrolled it to show Jon the Wall and the new fissures on it.

"Edd is still not the official Lord Commander, because he doesn't have the votes," Satin confessed, "but we're all treating him like he is anyway. Ser Denys and Cotter Pyke are so used to fighting _living_ wildlings that they don't know what to do with dead ones, and Edd has the experience, if not the weapons. The Brotherhood Without Banners came to Castle Black some time ago, though, and they brought some dragonglass. Edd split them up along the Wall so every breach has some obsidian."

"Good!" Jon exclaimed in relief. "I hadn't thought of that; for some reason I supposed they'd all stay together at one of the castles."

"Oh, I'm sure they meant to," Satin replied with a shrug, "but Edd got them to see reason. I think he might have traded away a moon's supply of chicken and ale as part of the bargain. And the Kingslayer took his men and his Valyrian steel to the Long Barrow breach. It's a jolt seeing so many Westerlanders here, especially men who believe us about the Others and the wights!"

"Yes, that particular group met some wights on their way to Castle Black," Jon told his former squire. "Has Edd had any news from Sam?"

"Oh!" Satin cried, reaching into his bag again. "He did, though the raven was addressed to you. Sam is a bit behind the times, and apparently, so is the Citadel. They thought Jeor Mormont was still in command here, if you can believe that!"

After digging through his things for a bit, Satin handed Jon a rolled-up raven scroll addressed to Lord Commander Jon Snow. It was Sam's handwriting, sure enough. Jon pulled it open, nearly tearing it in his haste, and read:

 _To Lord Snow,_

 _It is my solemn duty to inform you that Maester Aemon passed away of old age on our journey to Oldtown. In his final days he was very concerned about his niece, Daenerys Targaryen, but there was nothing he could do to help her. We burned him in the style of the Targaryens and continued the voyage with Gilly and little Aemon. The maesters thought Lord Mormont was still in command at Castle Black, but I've updated their records. They mean to send a new maester north while I earn my links. On that note, please excuse the long delay in writing. Novices and acolytes are not permitted to use the ravens here until we have forged our ravenry link, as I have now done._

 _I have not found a solution to our northern problem yet, but rest assured that I will scour every inch of this library until I have learned something of use. Please send my greetings to our brothers, take care of them (and yourself), and pass on any news you may have of Gilly's babe._

 _Samwell Tarly_

Jon couldn't help a pang of sadness at the news. His poor great-uncle, stuck at the Wall and blind for so many years, had not made it to Oldtown alive. He dearly wished the wise maester were around to counsel him, and Jon also wondered what the former prince would have said, had the King in the North revealed his ancestry to him.

 _Would you have been proud of your namesake, Aemon Targaryen?_ Jon thought, struggling to remember his uncle's face. He had seen Maester Aemon nearly every day for years, but now he could not recall the face of his adviser. That was happening more and more often these days.

Shaking his head to clear it, Jon rolled up the parchment and put it away.

"We don't need to go to Castle Black at all," Jon told his Wintersguards and his lords (and Satin, who had mounted his horse anew next to Alyn Flint). "We ride straight for the nearest breach. Lead the way, Satin."

* * *

Jon had never seen Oakenshield before, even though he'd served as Lord Commander. That was true for most of the other forts, but it seemed preposterous to say so for the one directly east of Castle Black! _Not_ , he thought honestly, _that there was much to see here_. Oakenshield was only a quarter of the size of Jon's former command, if that. All of the buildings needed repairs, and his men would need to sleep in the tunnels connecting the buildings, at least until the barracks were habitable.

Edd's men had covered the holes in the roof of the common hall with oiled cloth for the nonce. Replacing the rotten wood would take time—and builders—the Acting Lord Commander simply didn't have. The Night's Watchmen had been sitting at supper when Jon and his Northmen had arrived, in the aforementioned common hall where they ate and huddled for warmth at night. It was hard to call it _sleep_ with an army of the Dead headed their way. The noise of their horses and the creak of their wagon wheels had roused them from their meal.

"Seven preserve us," breathed a few of the men on watch duty. Their bloodshot eyes were wide as they took in the long, long line of men marching into the tiny castle. The gray and white direwolf banners flapped in the wind, revealing to all that the King in the North and House Stark had come to the aid of the Watch once more.

Lady Brienne rode forward. In a booming voice, she said "Please inform Acting Lord Commander Tollett that Jon of Houses Stark and Targaryen, the King in the North, is here to see him."

"I see him, I see him!" called out a familiar, glum voice. Dolorous Edd had not gotten any more cheerful with command. He looked more doleful than ever as he stepped in front of Jon, who had just handed his horse's reins to Pod. For a moment, the former brothers looked at each other.

"You _bastard_ ," Edd said finally, and Jon embraced him with a hearty clap on the back. "You had to go and quit before the great battle of our time, didn't you?"

"I'm here, aren't I?" Jon protested. "And I brought you more men in six moons than the past three kings did in years, _with_ food to keep them alive."

"I can't argue with that," Edd agreed in his rueful tones. He dropped to one knee in the frozen mud of the courtyard, surprising Jon. Though Jon had done the same for Stannis Baratheon, it felt so utterly _wrong_ to have a former brother—and friend—kneeling to him that the king was stunned speechless. "Welcome to Oakenshield, your grace, and on behalf of the Night's Watch, thank you for your aid."

The other men in black followed suit, some kneeling more quickly and others, reluctant but outnumbered. Jon pulled Edd to his feet as soon as he'd recovered the power of speech.

"Thank you, Acting Lord Commander. Would one of your men direct mine to their quarters while we talk?"

Edd pointed at a squire Jon didn't know, probably a new recruit, and ordered him to lead Jon's men to the tunnels. Then he invited Jon into his quarters; cramped and musty as they were, they were better than huddling miserably under the common hall's rotting roof, like the rest of the Night's Watch were doing. Edd, having sent away his squire, heated some wine for himself and Jon, and offered the King in the North a cup.

"How far are they?" Jon asked, after taking a sip and letting the warmth flow down his throat.

"They'll be here by noon tomorrow," Edd answered soberly. "A few of us still have these, from the Fist," he added, showing Jon an obsidian arrowhead he wore on a leather thong around his neck. "We haven't forgotten the tale of Sam the Slayer. But it's not enough, not nearly enough."

"What of the Brotherhood? Satin said you'd spread them out along the Wall," the king inquired.

"I did. Lord Beric and his Dornish squire are here with their dragonglass daggers, and now that we have you and your lady guard, we won't be completely helpless." Seeing that Jon was opening his mouth to speak, Edd went on. "The western garrisons have the order to seal the entrances as best they can, if they can't hold back the invaders. It's going to be difficult, Jon," he confessed. "We need new scaffolding to reach the top, and we've barely started with that. The gaps are too tall, too wide, and too thick. They'd take an entire river's worth of water to seal completely."

"I know," Jon replied grimly. "I saw one as we were marching here. But as far as we know, wights don't scale the Wall."

" _Yet_ ," the Acting Lord Commander answered, glum as ever. "The Wall had never fallen to pieces before, either, but as soon as _I'm_ left in charge, it all comes crashing down."

"Well," Jon answered, trying to lift his spirits, "if any of us survive to tell the tale, future generations won't blame _you_ for all of this. You're not the Lord Commander yet."

"Gods willing, I'll never be that," the older man mumbled into his wine. "The men are terrified, Jon. The ones who didn't believe us before believe _now_ , but they also think we're all dead. Even Pyke and Mallister are panicking, and they're right to do so. The Night's Watch forgot why we're here, and now we're caught with our breeches down."

Jon fought his rising irritation. He liked Edd, and his gloomy commentary was usually funny, but at the moment he felt like punching him. _You have more help than I ever got as Lord Commander_ , he wanted to shout. _Stannis just made demands, threatened to interfere, took our castles for his own, and tried to lure men away with promises of legitimization and castles. Do you have any idea how difficult that was to refuse?_

"Edd, the Wall is better manned now than it's been for ages. We have some dragonglass. It's not all over yet," he said at last. "Even if they come by the thousands, they have to squeeze through four small gaps in three hundred miles of wall. It's not an attack any sane commander would attempt."

"Well, it's a good thing we're all sane up here," Edd sighed, draining the last of his cup. "Our families, if they're still alive, would be relieved to hear it."

Jon had a sudden thought. "What happened to those corpses I put in the ice cells at Castle Black?"

The Acting Lord Commander shuddered. "They woke up when the Wall cracked, though at the time we didn't know why. They've been pounding against the cell doors ever since, but we froze them shut before we marched out."

"Good!" Jon said, surprising Edd with his vehemence. "Look, Edd, no one believes these things exist until they see them, and sending just a hand to King's Landing didn't work. I think I'll send those two down south until we find someone who will listen, and more if we can capture them."

"Be my guest," Dolorous Edd agreed. "But Cersei Lannister won't do you any favors, Snow."

"No, not her," Jon replied, knowing Cersei would probably turn into a wight herself, rather than help Sansa in any way. "But if I sent envoys down to the Reach, to the Stormlands, to Dorne...if people knew what was coming, wouldn't they come to fight?"

"I'd sail to the Summer Isles and never come back," his companion answered, "but that's just me. I'm sure Westeros is _full_ of unsung heroes willing to fight a war they don't even know is happening."

Edd's tone and his words said opposing things, but Jon let that slide. His plan was worth a try, at least so people would see that the army of the Dead was real. While the rest of his men marched the remaining four miles to the fissure in the Wall, he'd ask a few of them to make cages that could hold wights. For now, he meant to have some supper, and sleep.

* * *

Sleep didn't come. Jon gave up halfway through the night, abandoning his cot and wincing as he stretched. Sleeping in the Lord's Chamber at home had spoiled him for all other beds, it seemed, especially the uncomfortable cots the Night's Watch slept on. Rickard and Larence, his guards on duty, saw him rise and followed in sympathetic silence.

Ghost met him outside the tunnel, quiet as always. Jon paced across the courtyard, then decided to climb to the top of the Wall. The winch had been oiled recently, and made little noise as the three men and the direwolf rose to the top. The view looked much the same as the view from Castle Black, and Jon was relieved to see pristine snow and trees, not White Walkers, when he looked down.

"Your grace!" called a youthful voice, and a young man in several layers of fur peeked out of the warming shed.

"Lord Dayne," Jon replied, smiling at his milk brother. "It's good to see you."

"And you!" the squire replied, grinning as he came closer. Jon's guards moved toward the warming shed, leaving him with Ned and Ghost. "We've heard some interesting tales about you, brother!"

"Yes, I'm curious to know how the news of my parentage spread across the North," Jon answered sternly.

"A few of us overheard the Kingslayer talking to Lord Tollett, and no one thought to keep it secret until it was too late," Ned replied, shivering. "That explains so much! Now I understand why Wylla and your fa—uncle had to guard the mystery so well," he said, satisfied. "Even better, that makes us cousins!"

"Oh?" Jon said, amused by the other's enthusiasm.

"Yes," the Dornishman explained. "Aegon the Fifth, your great-great-grandfather, was the son of Lady Dyanna Dayne! So was his brother, the maester that used to live here."

"So we're milk brothers _and_ cousins," the king realized. Then, feeling the urge to tease Edric as he'd once teased his brothers, he added, "So if I'm part of House Dayne, doesn't that mean I could claim Dawn?"

His blond cousin's face fell. Jon chuckled, then raised his hands in a picture of surrender. "Relax, Ned. I'm not a knight, and I have a legendary sword of my own. I don't need any more," he added, showing Ned the blade of Aegon the Conqueror.

The squire took it reverently, admiring the hand-and-a-half longsword with careful hands. "I wish I had Dawn with me," he confided. "I don't know if it would kill a White Walker like your Valyrian steel, but I'd certainly try!"

"Kill a wight or two, and perhaps Lord Beric will knight you tomorrow," Jon told him sincerely. "You have the skill to be Sword of the Morning, Ned. Mayhaps all you need is a brave deed worthy of songs, and you'll have the title as well."

"Then killing a few wights won't be enough," Edric complained ruefully, returning the sword. "We'll all be doing that soon enough. I need to save Lord Beric's life, though even _that_ loses its impact when the man dies and comes back to life every few moons."

Jon tried to laugh, but the subject hit too close to home.

"Lord Beric told me once, that every time he died and he came back, he lost a bit of his soul," Jon said, lowering his voice so his Wintersguards wouldn't hear. "Does he lose his memory, as well?"

"Yes, of course," Ned answered. "He doesn't even remember his parents or his home, or my aunt Allyria anymore, and they're betrothed! She's just a name to him now. After his third or fourth death, he didn't recognize _me_ , and I've been his squire for six years."

Jon's heart sank, and his cousin saw it in his face.

"You've forgotten something important?" he asked, lowering his voice as well.

"More than something," Jon confessed. "I've lost some childhood memories. Sometimes Sansa will bring up a story or a person we haven't seen since we left Winterfell, and I have _no idea_ what she's talking about. I'm forgetting things that I _know_ I used to know, even after my death!"

Jon gathered steam and continued. "I can't remember Maester Aemon's face, and I saw him every day for years. I can't picture _Sam_ in my mind's eye, and he was my best friend! Even worse, I can't remember Arya's face anymore," he added in a painful near-whisper. "I love her more than my own life; I always have, and I _can't remember her face_! I know that she looked like me, with the long face, dark hair, and gray eyes of the Starks, but I can't see her in my mind's eye, and I'm afraid I wouldn't recognize her if she came home!"

Jon could barely squeeze out the words. His throat was tight with the misery and shame he'd bottled up for months.

Ned clapped a reassuring hand over Jon's fur-clad shoulder. His blue eyes looked at the King in the North with pity, and a certain weariness that could only come from watching one's master die and come back, over and over. "Does Princess Sansa know?"

"No!" Jon cried, then lowering his voice again as he remembered his guards. "I don't want to worry her. It's bad enough that I'm the son of Rhaegar Targaryen ruling the North. If word of this gets out, people might think I inherited more than blood from my grandfather, the Mad King."

"Listen to me, cousin," Edric said firmly. "You are _not_ mad. You died, and the Red God that brought you back took a piece of you for his payment. It's not your fault. And I don't know the prince and princess very well, but I'm sure Prince Brandon and Princess Sansa would want to help you, if you'll let them."

He cracked a smile. "And I only knew Princess Arya for a short time, but I _know_ she'd kick you in the Targaryen family jewels, and call you stupid, for even _suggesting_ that you're mad like Aerys."

A gust of icy wind turned their way, and Jon wiped hastily at his face before his tears froze. He had not even realized he was crying, but he felt lighter after confessing to his friend.

"You should go back down, and try to sleep," Ned suggested kindly. "I have watch duty until the hour of the nightingale, but no one will be looking at _me_ when the Dead arrive; they'll be looking to you, your grace."

"I thought I'd told you to call me Jon," the King in the North replied, composing himself.

"I apologize," Edric answered with a cheeky little bow. "I wasn't sure, now that you're Aemon Targaryen and all."

Jon snorted. "I'm only Aemon Targaryen to people like Jaime Lannister, who worshiped my father. I'm happy to claim you as a cousin, but I'll always be a Stark at heart—what's left of it, anyway."

"What if your aunt Daenerys comes with her dragons?" Ned asked shrewdly.

"If she wants to treat me like family, I have no objection," Jon answered honestly. "If my claim, such as it is, threatens her, then we'll have a real problem on our hands. But let's take one war at a time, Ned."

The king and the squire parted amicably, and Jon, his guards, and his direwolf returned to the castle, though not before a shameless Ghost had begged Edric silently for the jerky in his pocket. They'd left the shivering Dornishman alone on top of the Wall, laughing and breakfast-less.

There was no point in going back to bed; Jon knew he'd never be able to sleep, and the men were due to march before dawn. Instead, he went to the dilapidated kitchen, where a few stewards and Jon's army cooks were up early, making a thick porridge and baking black bread, along with bacon for the officers. He took a loaf and some half-burnt bacon strips, and sent Rickard to Ned with the plate, thinking dryly that his milk brother must be sick of the Night's Watch and their poor rations by now.

Soon enough, the men were marching to the Oakenshield fissure, wearing thick woolen hats under their helms and scarves and cloaks over their leather and ringmail. The gap had been hidden from view, since they were so close to the Wall at the castle, but as the four miles dwindled to nothing, the enormity of it became apparent. This one formed a triangular hole some three hundred feet tall, and about twenty feet wide at the base, though it narrowed slightly on the southern side, perhaps to fifteen feet. The ice that had collapsed lay in uneven chunks on both sides of the hole as well as inside it, making it a difficult terrain on which to fight. Some of these ice boulders were twenty and thirty feet high, obscuring the view and impossible to move by men alone. Unlike the tunnels the Watch had built, there were no gates or murder holes. The crack in the Wall was simply a gap, wide enough for a dozen men, and they'd have to hold it or seal it.

Immediately, Jon set twenty of his men to building fires and spreading gravel, so his soldiers would be able to fight without slipping on the ice. Edd ordered some of his own men to form the smaller chunks of ice into barricades inside the tunnel, which they could then freeze solid. They'd make it as difficult as possible for the White Walkers to get from one side to the other. They worked on this for hours, and the weak sun crept higher and higher, until dark clouds covered it.

Was it Jon's imagination, or was the temperature dropping?

A sentry somewhere blew a horn: three long blasts, meaning it was neither returning rangers nor wildlings coming their way.

"Here they come!" shouted Edd, pulling down the scarf he'd had over his nose and mouth. "Drop your shovels and get your weapons, _now_!"

The Northmen present looked to Jon for orders. He unsheathed Blackfyre.

"Remember," he told his nearest lords, "any man can kill a wight with fire, courage, and a bit of luck. The Others are different; if you find yourself facing one of _them_ , pin it, trap it, do what you must, and call for help. Lord Beric and Lord Dayne have dragonglass, and I have dragonsteel. I know some men of the Watch carry obsidian as well. Don't try to be heroic; try to survive, because we need you all."

Lord Glover looked as terrified as the others, but he raised his sword into the air. "For House Stark, and the North!" he shouted, and his soldiers cheered, soon joined by the rest of the Northmen. A few Night's Watchmen joined in as well, while the others looked on awkwardly and held their weapons in trembling hands.

"Light your torches," Jon ordered, "and follow me."

The tunnel had turned misty, and Jon's eyes stung from the bitter cold passing through. Still, he walked toward the northern entrance, flanked by his Wintersguards and followed by the men of the North.

 _I took a crown and won some glory_ , he thought, _but I am still the sword in the darkness._

Beric Dondarrion and Ned Dayne joined them, both carrying small daggers made of dragonglass.

 _I am the watcher on the walls._

Behind Jon's guards, Edd and the few remaining rangers of the Watch lined up, swords and torches at the ready.

 _I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers..._

Jon's archers climbed the shorter ice boulders, while Edd's archers hid behind the new barricades.

 _...the shield that guards the realms of men._

Through the freezing mist, Jon saw blue eyes.

* * *

BOOM. We're ready for some action at the Wall and in the Riverlands, but first, we're heading south to visit Dany.

Thanks to iamqueenkk for beta reading, and thanks to everyone for your reviews.

(Has anyone heard the S8 leaks? Yikes. If those are true, people who didn't like S7 won't like S8 any better, methinks. It has all of the same problems.)


	23. Rise and Fall, Dany II

**Dany II**

Dany paced across the deck of her flagship, too nervous to stay still. She'd sailed out of Sunspear with her fleet of Ironborn and Unsullied, leaving Prince Doran's knights and spearmen to march northwest over land with the Dothraki. She didn't have the room to take everyone on her ships, and the Dornish spearmen and Dothraki riders were best used for land battles, not sea battles. Still, she couldn't help but worry. Her Dothraki were under orders to not rape or pillage the lands of her allies, but if even one of her _khals_ stepped out of line, they would ruin _everything_.

The Prince of Dorne watched her from his chair. Though his men were elsewhere, Doran had accepted a place on Dany's small council. That meant leaving Princess Arianne in charge of Dorne while he sailed with Dany, joining the council aboard the ship that served as her castle. Areo Hotah, his bodyguard, stood on the deck beside his lord, attentive as always, though there was no threat in sight.

"Your grace," Doran said carefully. "I needn't ask what worries you, because there are many things, but how might I help?"

"I don't know," Dany replied. "I can't help but worry. So many things could go wrong, and we're in Westeros now! This is where I've wanted to be for _so long_ ," she trailed off, frowning at the leagues of sunlit sea in front of her.

"May I ask why?" the prince wondered.

Daenerys turned to look at him, unsure of what he meant. "Why I wanted to come to Westeros? It's my _home_ , Prince Doran."

"Yet you had never seen it, until your ship brought you to Sunspear," the man answered, watching her with shrewd, dark eyes. "What drove you west, when you were already a powerful queen in your own right?"

"Westeros is my birthright," Dany told him, wavering. It wasn't her reason, and she knew it. Recovering her father's throne had been _Viserys_ ' dream, not hers. "When Viserys died, I became the last Targaryen in the world. The Iron Throne is mine, by right."

The Prince of Dorne shook his head. "It's not enough, your grace. Your family lost the throne, and Targaryen inheritance alone means little after more than twenty years of usurper kings and queens. You did not come to _reclaim_ a throne, but to _win_ one through fire and blood."

Doran seemed to be asking a question, but Dany was not sure what he wanted. As she gazed at him, confused and silent, the prince signaled to his bodyguard, who wheeled him closer to the queen.

"Your grace," Doran said gently. "I have kept Dorne out of the wars of Westeros since Prince Rhaegar died on the banks of the Trident. I've been honest about my desires—for justice, for vengeance, and for a ruler who will be wise and maintain a lasting peace after the fire and bloodshed are over. I would beg you to be honest with me, in return. We are about to go to war against five—excuse me, four-and-a-half—" he amended, sending a quick glance at the Ironborn crew "of the seven kingdoms. What do you hope to gain from it?"

And then, Dany understood.

"I want a _home_ , Prince Doran," she said in a near-whisper. It seemed almost shameful to admit it. "I've been an outsider almost all of my life. When I wasn't running from the Usurper's assassins, I was living with people whose traditions were totally foreign, and to whom my name meant nothing, except a bargaining chip. I've ruled people who wanted to own slaves, to profit from fighting pits, and all sorts of barbaric practices. I rule Dothraki, who think it perfectly normal to start a brawl at weddings and let guests kill each other."

Prince Doran's eyes softened.

"It's true that ruling Westeros was my brother's dream. _I_ was never so ambitious as a child. I wanted to be happy. I wanted to go back to Ser Willem Darry's house in Braavos and live with the old bear. He's been dead since I was five years old, and I _still_ dream of that house. I want to _belong_ , and war is the only way I can return to Westeros. Any usurper king or queen would have me and my dragons killed."

Dany stopped. There was a lump in her throat and her eyes stung. She could almost hear Viserys yelling at her to _S_ _top crying, Dany, you're not a baby! Are you a princess of House Targaryen, or a sniveling commoner's brat?_

"Oberyn visited Ser Willem once," Doran told her kindly. "It was when we arranged your brother's betrothal to Arianne. You must have been two or three years old then. He said he'd never seen a happier Targaryen babe; he found you in the garden, collecting flowers for Ser Willem and sucking on a lemon while Viserys played in the shade. Our niece and nephew were not so lucky; living in the Red Keep can oppress one's spirits, even as children, and poor Elia was ill so often that little Rhaenys and Aegon were left in the care of nurses for much of their lives."

Prince Doran could only guess how Dany thirsted for stories of her family— _not_ her mad father and his cruelty, but her sweet mother, her kind goodsister, Rhaegar's young children—but she had a more pressing question.

"Have I passed your test?" she asked quietly.

The man's eyes shone with unshed tears after speaking of his murdered sister and the children, but he smiled at her. "For now, I am perfectly satisfied with my choice of queen. And know this, your grace: as long as I live, you will always have a home in Dorne, no matter what may come to pass in the other kingdoms."

Dany looked at him, so overcome that she could barely speak. The prince squeezed her hand gently with his own. He'd donned gloves to ward off the chill of the sea and hide the reddened, swollen joints, though Dany knew his hands pained him greatly. When she recovered, her response was so faint that a slight breeze would have blown it away.

"Thank you, Prince Doran."

Their moment of peaceful quiet dissipated when Yara Greyjoy, aspiring queen of the Iron Islands, jogged towards them from the helm of the ship. Her dark eyes were glinting with excitement. Lord Theon followed, looking worried.

"Your grace! Prince Doran! Look there," Yara told them, pointing. "Do you see the flame?"

Dany looked, and indeed, there was a distant flame rising on the horizon. "What is it?"

"It's the top of the Hightower," Yara replied. "The tower itself is so tall—over a thousand feet—that the flame can be seen for miles and miles. We're about five-and-forty miles from Oldtown."

"It's one of Lomas Longstrider's nine _Wonders Made by Man_ ," Prince Doran added, looking at it with interest. "Although the current tower is fairly recent. The earlier fortresses were much smaller and made of wood. Some of the tales say that Bran the Builder raised the first stone tower, only two hundred feet tall."

"Bran the Builder?" Dany asked, curious. She had never heard the name before. The only builder her brother had told her about was Maegor Targaryen, king of Westeros and builder of the Red Keep.

"Brandon Stark," Theon explained quietly, noticing Dany's confusion. "The Starks have hundreds of Brandons in their crypt, but this one was the _founder_ of House Stark, if the tales are true. The Northmen say he raised the Wall with the help of giants and the children of the forest, and he also raised Winterfell, and Storm's End with Durran Godsgrief, and possibly the first stone Hightower."

"Sounds like quite the legend," Dany answered, once again feeling the sting of her haphazard education.

"In any case, we'll reach Oldtown soon," Yara added, businesslike once more, "and that's where we'll find my kinslaying shithead of an uncle, and whatever fleet he's assembled. I don't know how he built one so fast."

"He's formed an alliance with Cersei Lannister, so the answer is simple," Prince Doran offered in his calm manner. "The Greyjoy fleet must have joined with the Lannisport fleet."

" _That_ won't last, no matter what my uncle and the Lannister whore promised," Yara said decidedly. "Pyke and Lannisport have been enemies for thousands of years. Any Ironborn captain worth his salt would never trust those yellow-haired greenlander bastards, and _they_ won't trust our folk, either."

Lord Theon looked embarrassed by his sister's crude language, but he said nothing. Daenerys nearly laughed; she'd been a _khaleesi_ before becoming queen! Rough words would never frighten her or disgust her, not when there were so many other, far more terrible things in the world.

"Then, if Her Grace's dragons don't scare them off, and they truly are attacking the same place together, we may have to hammer at their weak alliance until it shatters," the Prince of Dorne told them.

"How?" asked Lord Theon.

"Perhaps we ought to cut off some tongues, like Uncle Euron does," Yara said in disgust.

"We need one side to turn on the other, showing that they can't count on their new allies in a panic," Doran explained. "If you'll allow it, your grace, Varys and I will command a small group of your men and see it done."

Dany didn't trust the eunuch alone, but Doran's involvement sealed the deal. "Very well. How many men will you need?"

"Oh, half a dozen Ironborn, and half a dozen Unsullied should do," the man replied. "Areo, take me inside, please."

With little effort, the bodyguard picked up the prince from his chair and carried him down the stairs to his cabin. Dany hoped Doran would make more use of Varys than she'd been able to thus far. There wasn't much information to gather while sailing without ravens, and the man knew little of naval warfare.

* * *

As the Hightower grew larger and taller, and the bay narrowed enough to see land on both sides, Dany and her companions finally saw the battling fleets awaiting them. Though the news coming to Sunspear had been sparse, Dany and her commanders knew that the Redwyne fleet had separated to protect the coast from Lannister attacks, and the Ironborn had joined their new allies, setting much of the Reach on fire between the Mander and the Whispering Sound. Though the majority of the Reach army remained intact, the Redwyne fleet had been much reduced, and would be desperate for relief.

"Gods," said Dany's Hand, shading his eyes to look into the distance. "She's given _Euron Greyjoy_ the last of the wildfire!" he cried, aghast.

He was right. Dany looked, and indeed there were ships burning in an inferno of green fire. The nearest of them were flying Redwyne colors. Far behind them, between Oldtown and the defending fleet, floated perfectly safe Greyjoy longships and Lannister war galleys, as well as some smaller ships Dany couldn't see properly.

"Fire ships," Yara Greyjoy said grimly, putting away her looking-glass. "If we sail further into the bay with those coming toward us, we're all dead. It will be too cramped to maneuver around them."

Dany looked at her dismayed councilors, and fought the urge to laugh at them.

"Remind me, Lord Hand; what are my house words?" she asked pointedly.

"Fire and blood," Tyrion replied. "And that's not comforting at this time, your grace."

"You forget that I bring my own fire," the queen told them all, gazing upwards in search of Drogon. "I'll fly overhead, and ensure that any fire ships are ashes at the bottom of the bay before you come close."

"It is too dangerous, my queen," protested Grey Worm.

"I agree, your grace," Lord Varys added.

"What would you have us do, then, while the city is defenseless and the Reach is burning? Shall I wait on the ship, eating lemon cakes and playing cyvasse, while the people I mean to rule suffer? I think not."

She called to Drogon, more with her mind than with her voice. It was hard to explain how their bond worked, even to herself, but her child swooped down towards the water, like he did when he fished for whales. Rhaegal and Viserion remained high above them, gliding on the winter winds.

"Slow down our fleet. I'll clear the path," Dany said, then climbed aboard her dragon, ignoring all protests.

Riding Drogon was a delight, despite her purpose for doing so. The winter sun blazed above her, and the salty sea-breeze was bracing after days of a stuffy cabin. Far below the queen and her dragon lay the most fertile and beautiful part of Westeros— _Rhaesh Andahli_ , as the Dothraki called it—as well as the engineering marvel that was the Hightower. For a moment, Dany forgot that she was flying toward an enemy fleet she must kill with dragonfire, and simply basked in the joy of soaring above the world.

But the flames licking at every seaside village ruined the idyllic picture. The destruction soured her enjoyment, though it did nothing to change her mind. It was time to fight fire with fire, and take back her father's kingdom. Dany urged Drogon lower, into the path of a Lannisport war galley.

" _Dracarys_!"

The effect was immediate. The wooden ship and its golden-haired crew alike burned instantly under Drogon's black flame, leaving only small pieces of debris and ashes scattered on the seawater. A massive curtain of steam formed where Drogon's fire had touched the seawater, bathing Dany with its searing heat.

Men on a nearby Greyjoy longship were pointing and shouting in alarm. Some tried their luck with crossbows, but Dany flew out of range as quickly as she dared. Her next target was one of the fire ships, devoid of people but presumably containing pots of wildfire. She ordered her dragon to burn it, and indeed, the thing exploded in black and green flames. The Greyjoy ship was too close; it, too, caught fire, and terrified Ironborn and thralls alike ran in a panic, hoping to jump overboard and survive in the water. Yet the wildfire spread too quickly, catching all but a few and trapping them on the deck or below it. For them, death by dragonfire was a mercy; a quicker death than the one awaiting them. Dany gave the order again, _Dracarys,_ not realizing that she was weeping until a blast of cold wind hit her cheeks.

The Greyjoy and Lannisport fleet looked endless. Over and over, Dany bid her dragon dive, blast his black-and-red fire at a fire ship or an enemy galley, and retreat before anything harmed herself or Drogon. The screams of dying men became a wordless roar in her ears, and Dany ignored it as best she could.

 _If I look back, I am lost. I am NOT my father; I burn them only because they attacked my allies. They deserve to die._

As Dany swooped low for another attack, she caught sight of her own fleet, anchored safely away from the wildfire. Yara would not risk the ships until every last bit of wildfire had died. Dany hunted for her next target, and found the last of the fire ships between two Lannister ships. Drogon reduced it to ash and green flames, taking the two Lannister galleys with it.

Suddenly, Drogon shrieked in anger, and turned so abruptly that Dany nearly flew off his back. Only the reins kept her from death, and she looked around in alarm as she scrambled back aboard her dragon. The enormous Greyjoy ship approaching them had fired several siege weapons on its deck, striking Drogon hard in his left wing. The bolt had not gone through cleanly, but lodged in the bone, impairing Drogon's flight. He was bleeding sluggishly.

Dany felt her dragon's pain and rage as though it were her own. Every part of her screamed for vengeance, and Drogon felt the same; he didn't need Dany to give the order. Within seconds, his black flames had engulfed the monstrous galley and all of the siege weaponry on board, though not before another bolt had struck her dragon in the leg.

She knew her time was limited. Drogon had never been tame, and it was useless to ask a dragon to be so. Now that he was injured, there was only so much she could ask of him, and destroying the entire enemy fleet on her own was absurd.

Choosing her targets carefully, Dany approached another galley full of siege weapons, this one flying Lannister colors. They fired at her, and at Drogon, but Dany was more prepared this time around. A quick command to Drogon and the nearest bolts burned to ashes before reaching them, while the injured dragon dodged the others. Golden-haired sailors met their fiery end screaming, and Dany felt Drogon's fury beginning to abate. Soon, the pain would overpower everything else.

One sunken war galley later, Drogon had had enough. Dany steered him back to her flagship, landing on the deck with a crash. The largest of her children was growing too big to do this much longer, but that couldn't be helped; Drogon needed his wounds bandaged. As for Dany herself, now that she was away from the battle, she noticed the unmistakable scent of burnt hair, and looked at the charred ends of her plaits in surprise.

 _I'm going to need a wigmaker_ , she thought wildly. _I can't meet the high lords of Westeros with a bald head!_

The thought almost made her giggle, and she knew it was the battle-madness wearing off.

Immediately, Tyrion, Missandei, Grey Worm, and the Greyjoy siblings appeared, skirting carefully around the wounded dragon. Now that he lay so still on the deck, Dany noticed many smaller wounds from arrows and debris dotting his hide, and fought to contain her anger.

"What was it, your grace?" asked her Hand. "We saw something hit Drogon and nearly topple you both!"

"A ballista, I think," Dany replied. "Just there, on his wing bone. The bolt must be removed before he can fly again. There's another one in his leg."

Tyrion winced. "How will we get them out without burning to a crisp?"

"I will keep him calm," Dany answered, hoping her dearest child would allow it.

Queen Yara produced her ship's surgeon, an old Ironborn sailor with more scars than skin. The man trembled as he approached the dragon, but went to work at once, proving his bravery without words. Dany stayed in the dragon's line of sight, stroking his head and willing him to be still. He roared piteously as the Ironborn healer cut the bolts free, and Dany's heart broke for her child.

"Now comes our turn, your grace," Theon Greyjoy spoke up, distracting her. "You've cleared the path, so we'll sail into the bay and meet our uncle. Unless you can fly another dragon, you'd best stay with this one, far from the battle."

"I cannot ride Rhaegal or Viserion," Dany told him, "I don't have the same bond with them that I have with Drogon. But I am their mother nonetheless; if I give them commands, they will obey."

 _Or so she hoped_. Her children could be willful at times.

Night fell, hiding the burning shores and enemy ships from view. Still the distant wildfire burned on the water, consuming the scattered remains of destroyed galleys. It would run out of fuel by morning, but the ghastly green flames danced behind Dany's eyelids, invading her dreams. Ser Barristan and Tyrion Lannister had told Dany of her father's obsession with wildfire, and her mind could now supply images to go with the grisly stories.

She would never be able to sleep.

The deck was not empty, despite the late hour. Tyrion Lannister sat with a bottle of wine, staring dully at the distant fires. Not too far away, Theon Greyjoy paced restlessly.

"You should rest, Lord Theon," Dany told the latter, quite hypocritically. "A battle awaits us in the morn."

The Ironborn tried to smile, but his missing teeth ruined what must have been a roguish grin, once. "I have little hope of glory in battle, your grace," he replied, courteous but bitter. "Sleep will not restore my strength, or return my missing fingers. The best I can hope for is a good death."

Dany wanted to pity him. His sister had told her some of the things Theon had suffered in captivity. And yet, the queen couldn't help but feel he had brought it all on himself. Was a man doing monstrous things excusable, if a bigger monster came along and did worse to him?

She was all too aware that to many Westerosi, _she_ would be the bigger monster. There were no easy answers in life, she pondered ruefully, and Theon Greyjoy's past misdeeds were not hers to judge.

"What will happen, should you meet your uncle in battle?" Dany prodded. Kinslaying was very much frowned upon in Westeros, and yet Greyjoys would fight on both sides tomorrow.

"He will kill me," Theon said, unflinching. "I'm not strong enough to fight him, and he has already proven that family means nothing to him. Euron Greyjoy lives to serve himself."

"What about Yara?"

"Yara could very well kill the fucker," Theon admitted, "and I hope she does. The Ironborn will follow the strongest leader, and killing our uncle would prove Yara is the one, even though she's a woman. Then we wouldn't even need to fight the rest of them."

"You're a remarkable man, Lord Greyjoy," Dany told him, meaning it. "I've never met a man who would support his sister as you do yours, and you face your own death as bravely as my Unsullied."

He laughed, a choked, harsh sound in the stillness of night. "The Unsullied and I have more in common than you realize, your grace," he said. "And there are worse things than death."

A haunted expression crossed his face.

"For Yara's sake, I hope you live and earn much glory," Daenerys said sincerely. "For yours, I hope you find peace, in victory or in death."

The Ironborn bowed, silent, and Dany left him to his brooding.

Dany's Hand was not in the mood for conversation. He said only that he was remembering past mistakes, and Dany let the matter drop. Instead, she went to sit by Drogon, who was sleeping fretfully, his wounds clean and bandaged with pieces of an old sail. They'd had no other fabric long enough to wrap around the dragon's limbs.

The inner fire of her dragon kept her warm despite the chilly sea breeze, and Drogon's wing blocked the terrible green flames from view. With her child's snoring for a lullaby, the queen fell asleep.

* * *

Morning came too soon, with a thick fog over the bay that smelled of charred wood and cooked meat. Carefully, Yara's crew lowered a rowboat with Dany and her fellow noncombatants down to the water. Two of the Ironborn rowed them to the nearest shore, where Rhaegal and Viserion had lain down to sleep in a ruined barn. Drogon followed reluctantly when called, wobbly on his injured leg and wing, but lay next to his brothers without protest. With dragons for protection and the fog for concealment, Daenerys and her closest advisers waited, impatient, for news of the coming battle. Doran Martell read from an old book. Tyrion Lannister drank. Missandei paced. Areo Hotah cleaned his weapons.

The fog lifted slowly. At first, Dany saw only the shadows of her fleet as they passed into the bay. Then the sun rose higher, and the mist cleared enough to see colors. Black and crimson, for her own fleet. Crimson and gold, for the enemy. Black and gold, on both sides. Blue, for the remaining Redwyne ships. And far inside the bay, just under the Hightower, a single ship with a red eye sigil. This, the Greyjoys had told her, was the _Silence_ , the ship of mutes captained by Euron Greyjoy himself.

It was maddening to be so far from the action! Dany had to trust that her intact fleet would be enough to take on the reduced enemy fleet, but it sat ill with her to stay out of the battle. If only Drogon were not injured! She supposed he'd fly if Dany commanded it, but not happily, and not for long. She must only fly if the battle went _very_ wrong.

The sun had reached its zenith when the two fleets finally engaged. Dany heard the unmistakable sound of siege weapons striking wooden hulls, and the faraway screams of men. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Prince Doran remove a device from a pocket, and bring it up to his own eye.

"Would you care to look, your grace?" he offered a moment later, showing Dany a small Myrish lens. It was a beautiful piece of work, golden with intricate Rhoynish scrollwork and small, varicolored gems all along the tube. "I'm afraid that's the best we can do from this distance."

She took the lens and peered through it. The first ship she saw was one of Yara's, sinking and aflame. It was not Dany's flagship, but dread grew in her belly as she turned the lens here and there, searching for more tidings of the battle.

Here, a wreckage in Lannister crimson. She could see men swimming away from it. There, a half-sunken Redwyne ship, with a prow so damaged it looked like a sea monster had chewed it up.

There it was! She'd found her flagship, and it was still upright and whole. It was, however, very close to the _Silence_. Were the Greyjoys negotiating terms? Was the battle over? It had been a while since the last scorpion blast.

"Oh, this is so infuriating!" Dany groaned, dropping the lens. "They're close enough to parley, but who knows what they're actually doing?"

"You trust your Greyjoy allies, do you not, your grace?" Doran asked, watching her curiously.

"Yes, I must—but I do wish we had news!"

"Not a resounding defense of our Ironborn allies," the Imp said wryly, "but I don't blame you. They're an untrustworthy bunch at the best of times."

"So says the Lannister kinslayer," Doran Martell replied, in a tone that quelled any further japes.

"I am that," Tyrion said calmly. He looked down at his empty wine bottle and swore. "And yet, the thousands of years of bad blood between the Ironborn and—hells, anyone else—speak loudly enough. I hope your plan to turn them on each other works."

They waited a while longer; the ship's cook had packed bread, cheese, and dried meats for them, as well as a few casks of wine they'd hidden from Tyrion. It was more of a snack than a true meal, but none of them had the stomach for more. Doran's lens revealed no secrets, and the sun began its painfully slow downward journey to the west.

Dany was keeping Drogon company when three riders suddenly appeared. They were excellent horsemen, with pale skin freckled from the sun, and the colors of House Bulwer of Blackcrown, if Dany remembered correctly. They tethered their horses well away from the barn and approached on foot, palms up and empty to show they meant no harm.

"Your grace?" asked the leader, a middle-aged man with piercing blue-green eyes. "Queen Daenerys?"

"I am she," Dany replied. "What news, ser?"

The men walked closer, and all three froze as they saw the dragons. Drogon and Viserion slept on, but Rhaegal was piercing them his fiery bronze glare.

"He won't harm you unless I command it," Dany reassured them, praying she spoke true. She was sure Rhaegal had feasted on a whale only yesterday.

Recovering from their shock, the messengers knelt at Dany's feet. Behind her, Prince Doran, his guard, and Tyrion walked closer, just as eager for news.

"The two fleets engaged just before noon," the leader told her, "and all was well for a few hours. Some of the Crow's Eye's Ironborn turned on the Lannisport men, though it's not clear why. But Queen Yara and her men stormed the _Silence_ , and were taken captive, your grace. The Redwyne men are fighting on, but the Ironborn will not move without your order."

"What of Theon Greyjoy?" asked Tyrion.

"Missing, Lord Hand," the man replied, clearly seeing Tyrion's pin. "Most believe he fell in battle. We were bid to come by two injured men that managed to swim ashore, and we rode in all haste."

"I must go, then," Dany decided, looking doubtfully at Drogon.

"Your grace, wait," the second rider begged her. "The men say the Crow's Eye means to perform some form of dark sorcery at sunset," he explained. "That is why he did not kill his niece immediately. He wants her blood for something."

"Blood magic," spat Tyrion. "First Stannis, now Euron."

"Sunset," Doran murmured, and twisted in his chair to look at the sun. "I'd say that's in an hour at most, your grace. There's not much time to plan a rescue mission."

"I agree," Daenerys replied. "I'm taking my children, right now. The sun will conceal me until I'm close enough to attack."

"But Drogon's injuries—" protested her Hand.

"I am _well_ aware of his injuries, Lord Tyrion," Dany snapped. "But if I let Yara be sacrificed without a fight, I will have lost this war when it has barely begun. And I know the power of blood magic," she added darkly. "Anything Euron Greyjoy conjures up would be a nuisance at best, and a nightmare at worst. I won't let it happen."

There was no stopping her, and her advisers knew it.

"Seven guide you, your grace," murmured the Blackcrown men.

Drogon was awake. Perhaps some of his mistress' anxiety had reached her dragon through their bond, because he lay his head down on the dirt and allowed Dany to climb. In her haste, she clipped his injured wing with her booted foot, making him groan weakly, but he allowed her to take a seat on his back.

"Drogon! Viserion! Rhaegal!" Dany commanded. "Sōvēs!"

The dragons rose; Drogon did so a little slower and a little more precarious than his brothers, but he seemed to regain his confidence once they were high enough to glide. The sun was traveling steadily toward the western horizon, and Dany used this to hide, knowing any sailors foolish enough to look directly toward the sun would be momentarily blinded, and unable to see her or her children.

The nearest ships were Yara's. Dany flew directly over them, ignoring the shouting of the Ironborn below. Some sprang into action, clearly believing that she was about to rescue their queen. _Good_. It would save time if they acted now, instead of waiting for Dany to deliver Yara into their arms.

The next cluster of ships bore Lannister colors. Dany ordered her dragons to burn them, and announce her arrival. They obeyed in spectacular fashion, but Dany urged Drogon forward, toward the _Silence_.

"And now my day is complete!" Dany heard, abnormally loud. A man dressed in black seemed to be shouting at her through a speaking trumpet. As soon as she saw the eyepatch, she knew it was Euron.

Yara and an old man Dany didn't know were bound and gagged at his feet. Behind him, in the arms of a scarred, mute captor, Theon Greyjoy thrashed weakly, bruised and gagged as well.

"Welcome, Daenerys Targaryen, Jelmāzmo, Muña Zaldrīzoti!" he called, grinning up at Dany. He'd called her Stormborn and Mother of Dragons in a surprisingly good High Valyrian accent. "Please, do join us aboard my ship. I would like for you to witness this glorious event."

"And what is this glorious event?" Dany shouted, allowing Drogon to perch on the bowstrip. Viserion landed on the crow's nest with a thump that made the whole ship sway, while Rhaegal found Yara's abandoned rowboat and sat on it. It nearly buckled from the dragon's weight.

"Well," the Crow's Eye replied pleasantly, "I'm rectifying a great injustice, your grace. You have your sigils made flesh, as did the unworthy Starks," he paused for effect. "But where is _mine_? Krakens are not real, you say? Krakens haven't been seen in centuries? I say _that is_ _ **greenlander horseshit**_!"

His crew of mutes could not cheer, but they raised their sword-hands in unison.

"But a kraken demands a sacrifice before he appears, and I am happy to oblige. What beast could refuse the blood of kings?" he said, nudging the old man with his boot, "or queens?" he added mockingly, as he gave Yara a vicious kick.

"One word to my dragons and you would burn before summoning your precious kraken," Daenerys threatened, her voice cracking as she was forced to shout again.

Euron Greyjoy grinned. "And your pretender queen and ally would burn with me," he replied. "Who will fight for Daenerys Targaryen if she kills her own friends with dragonfire?"

He was right, curse him. She had no guarantee that her Ironborn would follow her without Yara or Theon, and it would set a terrible precedent to let her first Westerosi ally die.

"Name your terms," Dany yelled through gritted teeth. She was running out of time. Behind her, the sun had become a thin sliver of orange fire above the horizon.

"I knew you'd see reason," the Crow's Eye said pleasantly. "I want Harrenhal rebuilt and gifted to me," he began, his lips twisted in a smirk even as he spoke. "I want all of the books about magic and the obscure arts in the Citadel. I want Daenerys Targaryen for a rock wife, and Cersei Lannister and Sansa Stark for salt wives. I want the sword Blackfyre found and given to me...and I'll take one of your dragons, as well."

Bile rose in Dany's throat. "Impossible."

Euron Greyjoy blinked, his face frozen in a smug sort of grin. _Could he really be surprised? There was no chance in the seven hells that_ _Dany_ _would_ _ **ever**_ _acquiesce to his demands, and surely he knew it!_

Then he moved.

"Very well, then."

A thin slave dressed in ragged clothing stood near the Crow's Eye, holding a crimson horn. Euron took it, and laid it on the deck near Yara's head. Then, before Dany could shout or do anything, the madman picked up Yara by her hair and slit her throat. The old man followed her into the Stranger's arms.

Dany's wordless scream of horror joined Theon Greyjoy's muffled one, but it was too late. The kinslayer allowed their blood to drip, brilliantly crimson, onto the horn of the same color, and then kicked the corpses overboard with a maddeningly cheerful laugh.

"Goodbye, niece! Goodbye, Damphair!"

Then he commanded the thrall to approach, and returned the horn to his shaking hands. Trembling from head to foot, the man blew it, and the sound made her dragons wail in agony. Dany wished she could, too. Most of Euron's mutes had covered their ears, but it was not enough. They were wincing in pain.

The slave began to bleed from the nose and ears, then he fell, screaming wordlessly. Before Dany's terrified eyes, the man's skin blackened as if the horn had burned him from the inside out. It took him seconds to die.

Euron picked up the abandoned horn and dusted it off, still grinning carelessly.

"Amazing, the artifacts one finds while out reaving," he said, satisfied. "The Celtigars kept this one hidden from us for centuries, but now that the Crownlands and the Ironborn are allies..." he shrugged. "Well, it's the dawn of a new age."

Dany didn't know which god to pray to first, so she cast her prayer in the hope that one would hear and grant it. _Please, let it fail_ , she thought desperately. _Let the krakens stay in the depths_.

But no god was listening. The dark sea beneath them began to churn, and then, the enormous head of a monster appeared, its hideous mouth wide open and hungry.

* * *

Thanks to everyone who reviewed and messaged me! Your comments make my day, even if it's been three months since my last update (or more). I hope that hit the spot. Next time, we'll go back to the North and see what the Starks are up to, but we'll return to Oldtown and see what happens with Euron's kraken soon enough!


	24. Rise and Fall, Sansa VI

**Sansa VI**

Even after Robb's death, Sansa had never imagined herself as the lady of a great Northern keep. Her childish dreams had involved marrying a great lord of the South, and later on, a golden prince. As a hostage and Tyrion Lannister's wife, there had been no point in imagining such things. And Ramsay Bolton had never allowed her to play the role, in truth. Fat Walda Bolton had been the lady of the keep until Sansa's loathsome second husband had murdered her, and Sansa herself had been his trophy and his toy, a pretty thing to show off or hurt as it pleased him.

 _And wasn't that ironic?_ Now that Jon had taken up the crown of the Northmen, and Bran had returned home, it was Sansa Stark, the Princess of Winter, running the kingdom from her family's ancestral seat!

Sansa was determined to do it well, though she felt her deficiencies keenly. She'd never been good at sums, and now it was vital to calculate food rations correctly, for the smallfolk and for the army at the Wall. She hadn't paid enough attention to the history of the northern houses, with all their feuds and intermarriages; it would be horrifically easy to offend one of the lords! Septa Mordane and Lady Catelyn had trained her to be a beautiful queen with ladylike accomplishments, not the regent of a North at war, its wildling allies, and the legendary knights of the Vale!

Even her favorite tasks felt unimportant and useless in the grand scheme. She'd always been a deft hand with the embroidery needle, but Winterfell's Free Folk and refugee population had little need for finery; they needed sturdy wool, good linen, and plenty of furs and leather. Though Sansa was skilled enough at sewing practical garments, that required more time than she had. Lately, her sewing group of ladies had taken over that duty.

Between blizzards, more and more people arrived to fill up the winter town outside the walls. The wildlings had set up camp in the northern quarter and kept mostly to themselves, but the smallfolk of the North did not mix with them or even trust them. Nearly every time Sansa and her Wintersguards visited the town, they'd had to interrupt a brawl. Only Jon could unite the two peoples (though Ser Davos had tried), and he was unable to help from his current post.

Regency was a heavy mantle. In her most selfish moments, Sansa wished Jon would return already, and take the responsibility back from her. To add to her frustration, Sansa often saw Bran, motionless in the godswood or the crypts for hours at a time, while she ran to and fro, exhausted and always busy. The petulant child inside of her whined that it just wasn't _fair_.

The nights brought little comfort. Without Jon, his burgeoning musical skill, or his direwolf to chase away her nightmares, the Lord's Chamber loomed large and sinister in the late hours, and all too often Sansa woke up screaming. So often had her Wintersguards barged in, looking for a threat, that the princess was no longer embarrassed to be seen in her lace-trimmed nightrail. Every single guard had gotten an eyeful or three, though the Northmen were too deferential to say anything, and Geisa the spearwife didn't care.

Sansa's only escape came in the scarce moments of peace her duties allowed. She'd been forced to ask the kennelmaster to put down Ramsay's feral bitches, now that a long winter was upon Winterfell. There was simply no reason to waste precious food on dogs that might never submit to humans again. However, her daily warging practice with Kyra had spared her that fate. The once-vicious hunting dog had become as docile as a puppy, and often followed Sansa around the castle as she went about her business.

Jon and Bran had told Sansa that dogs were the easiest to control, since they'd been bred to do humans' bidding, and they'd been right. Slipping into Kyra's skin felt as comfortable as sinking into a hot bath, and after moons of practice, just as easy. When the endless duties and unhappy memories overwhelmed the princess, she would take Kyra for a run around the keep or the winter town, leaving Sansa's body behind in Jon's solar, or on her bed.

There was an unforeseen—but welcome—benefit to doing this. As Kyra, Sansa had access to information that would never have reached the Princess Regent otherwise. When a Barrowton merchant had stormed up to the castle, demanding justice for some stolen bolts of linen, Kyra's nose had followed the thief's trail directly to the man's business partner, rather than the wildlings they'd accused. She'd discovered that Bran's trick on Littlefinger was common knowledge, albeit inaccurate and full of exaggeration, and that Jon was now known as Jon the Undying or Jon the Gods-Chosen among the smallfolk. She'd heard secrets, benign and dangerous, and prevented two rapes.

Unlike her brother and cousin, no one knew Sansa was a warg. She meant to keep it that way. The North had no equivalent to Varys the Spider to ferret out plots against the royal family, but with Sansa's warging, they would not need one.

Every moment Sansa wasn't riding with Kyra, time dragged by, making the weeks since Jon's departure felt like years. Ser Davos was a willing Hand, plain-spoken and full of good counsel, and at times, a much-needed neutral intermediary. However, he knew even less about the North and its people than Sansa herself. That was why, when two Manderly men-at-arms came to her with three strangers in gray robes and chains, she nearly wept at the sight of them all.

"Thank the gods," Sansa whispered, leaning back into the Stark of Winterfell's chair. "Welcome to Winterfell, maesters!"

The men bowed, chain links clanking slightly. Ser Davos, sitting on Sansa's right, also sighed in relief.

"Thank you, your grace," replied their leader. He was quite old and quite hairless, except for a very bushy pair of eyebrows. His blue eyes gleamed with intelligence. "My name is Morn; I am bound for Castle Black. Andros will come as well, and take over for me when the inevitable occurs." He paused, and pointed out his other companion.

"Maester Rodwyle, on the other hand, would be pleased to serve the Starks of Winterfell."

Rodwyle bowed. He was possibly the youngest maester Sansa had ever seen, with a long face half-hidden by a thick, black beard. She supposed he'd grown it to appear more mature, though it was not long enough to hide his impressive collection of chain links.

"Where were you born, Maester Rodwyle?" Sansa asked curiously. The man certainly had the look of the North about him!

Rodwyle smiled. "Torrhen's Square, your grace. When the Archmaesters asked for volunteers to come North and serve Winterfell, I could not resist the call."

"The war has left Oldtown in a sticky situation, Princess," Andros spoke up, and Sansa detected a hint of the Vale in his speech. "The Grand Maester is dead; none of us recognize that degenerate Qyburn as one of _our_ order, and between Queens Cersei Lannister, Daenerys Targaryen, and Yara Greyjoy, and Kings Euron Greyjoy and Jon Snow, we find ourselves stretched thin and pulled in all directions. Some Archmaesters prefer one ruler, some another."

"I can imagine," Sansa replied politely. She could guess where this was going. "But your noble order was functioning perfectly before the Targaryens unified the Seven Kingdoms, and I expect it will continue to function now that we've separated. That said," she added, "if you've come to take the measure of the new King in the North, I'm afraid he's not here. We received news of an attack on the Wall, and he marched our army north with all haste."

"It is true that the Citadel ran well enough before the Iron Throne," Morn admitted, "though it takes time for the maesters to adjust, with changes such as these. For the nonce, your grace, we come to fulfill our sworn duty. No kingdom may function without proper communication and education of its lords."

"We brought ravens, and some copies of common books," Andros informed Sansa, "since we heard Wintefell had been sacked and burned."

"You heard correctly. Even before the sacking, an assassin set fire to our library as a distraction," Sansa replied. "The few books we've recovered are there already, but the place sorely needs a maester's attention. And I must say, it would be wonderful to have a Citadel-trained adviser once more. My cousin named me regent due to my Stark blood, not my wisdom, and our Hand knows more about sailing and the Stormlands than the North—I mean no offense, Ser Davos," Sansa added quickly.

"I take none, your grace," Davos replied in his matter-of-fact way.

The maesters glanced at each other in confusion.

"Cousin, your grace? We understood your late father's bastard had been chosen to rule the North."

Sansa smiled innocently. "I suppose the Citadel couldn't have known," she said, pretending to think hard. "But I must correct you; the man _you_ know as Jon Snow was born Aemon Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen by his second wife, Lyanna Stark." She took a breath, and went on. "At the time of his birth, King Aerys, Prince Rhaegar, and Prince Aegon had all died, leaving my cousin as the true heir to the Iron Throne. That is why Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Gerold Hightower, and Ser Arthur Dayne guarded him until the end."

Maester Andros' mouth had fallen open. The other two didn't look much better.

"That is only the beginning of Jon's story," Sansa continued, deliberately ignoring their shock. "Please, make yourselves comfortable, have some of our bread and salt, and afterwards I will show you the documents that prove this in our king's solar. In the meantime, I will tell you of my cousin's rise to Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the mutiny that freed him, and the enemy he is currently fighting. I'm afraid the tall tales the Citadel ignored are not tales at all..."

Sansa glanced up briefly and saw her guards on duty, Geisa and Young Artos, fighting laughter at the dumbstruck maesters. She gave them a barely noticeable nod, then turned her attention back to her guests.

* * *

The maesters were not the only welcome arrivals at Winterfell. A few days later, Morn and Andros had barely left for the Kingsroad when two Widow's Watch Flints begged admittance to Jon's solar, where Sansa, Maester Rodwyle, and Ser Davos were sorting through inventories. They'd brought another group of guests, this one long expected.

"Your grace," bowed the Flint greybeard on the right. "We bring the honorable Tycho Nestoris, emissary of the Iron Bank of Braavos, come to treat with House Stark. His assistant, Noros Vynolis, and these guards, have come as well."

Young Artos Norrey stepped forward, a tower of a man in Wintersguard gray. "You stand in the presence of Princess Sansa of House Stark, Regent of the Kingdom of the North," he said solemnly. "The King's Hand, Ser Davos Seaworth, and Maester Rodwyle."

The Braavosi men bowed politely. They looked half-frozen and out of place, dressed in muted reds and purples and blues in a sea of sober brown and gray. They also lacked the warrior's build of most of the men in the Great Hall; it was clear their weapons were parchment, ledgers, and ink, not steel.

Sansa rose gracefully. She had dressed to impress them, because as she always told Jon, a king (or princess regent) must look the part. She wore a new gown of fine wool, pure silver with delicate white embroidery at the hem and sleeves. Her winter rose crown, newly polished, shone brightly above her plaited hair.

"Welcome, Master Nestoris, Master Vynolis. Syra, if you would?"

The serving girl stepped forward with the tray of bread and salt. It was obvious that Nestoris had visited Westeros before; he took a piece of bread without the slightest hesitation, and his assistant followed suit. Once guest right had been given, Nestoris sent his guards away with an elegant hand gesture.

"Thank you, your grace," the banker said, his accent barely noticeable. "We are honored to accept House Stark's invitation."

"We have much to discuss, as I'm sure you know," Sansa replied carefully. "But if you would prefer to rest and reconvene on the morrow, Lord Davos, Maester Rodwyle and I would be happy to wait."

"There will be time for rest later, your grace," Nestoris told them.

"Very well. Please, be seated," Sansa agreed. The solar's chairs were far more cozy than the ones in the Great Hall, and there was food for those who wanted it. If these two meant to work from the moment of their arrival, at least they would do so in relative comfort.

"I understand Jon Snow is at the Wall?" the banker asked, looking down at his stack of letters and documents.

" _King_ Jon is fighting a battle against northern invaders," Ser Davos said, putting a sharp emphasis on the first word.

"Apologies, Lord Seaworth. When I last saw you both, Jon Snow was Lord Commander and you were Hand to Stannis Baratheon. Royalty in the Sunset Lands is too changeable for a humble Braavosi to follow."

"Jon was released from his Night's Watch vows—" Sansa protested.

"Your grace, I meant no disrespect," Nestoris clarified. "How His Grace left the Night's Watch is no concern of ours. From what I saw of your king, he was a clever young man, wise about gold and full of big ideas for the future of the Night's Watch. When we received his letter, the keyholders were quite curious to meet him. Noble houses often go extinct, of course, but a new heir appearing twenty years later is rare...and the keyholder in charge of the Targaryen accounts died seven years ago, and was never replaced."

He sighed. "So we have spent the weeks since your emissary's arrival digging through decades of long-forgotten investments and adding up the gold in your accounts. It was an enormous effort."

"Is there a new account manager?" asked Maester Rodwyle.

"If your king approves, my assistant Noros Vynolis will handle his accounts. I trained him myself, and am proud to recommend him for the position."

"I'm sure Jon will have no objection," Sansa replied, nodding at Vynolis politely. The man picked up his papers.

"In his letter, King Jon inquired if there was a Targaryen account, held separate from the Crown's finances," the new account manager told them. "The account does exist, and predates the Iron Throne's account. How a Valyrian dragonlord persuaded the Bank to open two accounts, I do not know; however, princes have added to it ever since. Prince Viserys attempted to claim both this money and the Iron Throne's, but Prince Rhaegar's will was clear: the gold would go to his widows and his children."

"When the news of Prince Aegon's death reached the Iron Bank, the account was worth—" Vynolis looked at his notes. "—eighty-three thousand, five hundred and eighty-two gold dragons."

Sansa heard Ser Davos gasp, and knew her own face must look as shocked as his. That was a moderate fortune for a southron lord, but in the North? Surely, this would be enough to keep them fed for years of winter!

 _And Robert Baratheon had spent half that on a single tourney prize!_ Sansa remembered, shaking her head at the wastefulness of that Hand's Tourney.

"The Targaryens spent lavishly, but they also favored a highly aggressive investment strategy; after all of these years, that account holds two hundred thousand, seven hundred and twenty-four gold dragons. It certainly helps that no one has withdrawn any gold from it for over twenty years."

"Gods be good," muttered Maester Rodwyle, his eyes round as saucers.

Young Artos and Rickard of the Wintersguard stood silent by the door, but Sansa saw their jaws hanging open. It was a good thing the guards were sworn to keep House Stark's secrets! The last thing they needed was for the smallfolk and the lords to stop the careful rationing that was keeping everyone alive, all because Jon was now richer than any King of Winter in the history of the North!

"The king also asked if a bride price was ever paid to his mother, Princess Lyanna of House Stark," Vynolis said, ignoring the shock he'd created. "Prince Rhaegar opened an account three-and-twenty years ago in her name; at the time, he deposited fifty thousand gold dragons for her and any children she might bear."

When Jon and Sansa had found the old letter from the Iron Bank in Lyanna's chest, they had dreamed of twenty, thirty, maybe fifty thousand gold dragons at most. Sansa wanted to laugh hysterically. To think that Jon had owned three times that as a _newborn_ _babe_!

"Was the investment strategy as aggressive as for the other account?" Ser Davos wondered.

"Indeed," the banker answered. "Princess Lyanna's account now holds ninety-eight thousand, six hundred and seventy-nine gold dragons, with King Jon as the only beneficiary."

"Well," Maester Rodwyle said, looking thunderstruck, "we needn't worry about our folk starving this winter _or_ the next, your grace."

"There is the Stark account as well, of course," said Vynolis, looking almost embarrassed, "but the Starks favor more conservative investments. The account holds only thirty-seven thousand, six hundred and four dragons at the moment."

"I don't doubt it," Sansa replied frankly. "We Starks cannot afford to gamble away our gold, when an extra coin might be the difference between a thousand families freezing to death, and surviving until spring. Still, it couldn't hurt to revise our strategy. Jon has given me the authority to make any purchases or investments I see fit, but I'd rather not take all of his family fortune if I can avoid it."

"I wouldn't even know _how_ to spend so much gold, to be honest," Ser Davos confessed. "Unless we wished to fight the Lannisters, and spent it all on sellsword armies and provisions for them. That's what Stannis meant to do."

Tycho Nestoris, who had kept silent and allowed his assistant to step into his new role, suddenly perked up.

"Is that a possibility?" he asked, one dark eyebrow rising.

"Not in the near future," Sansa replied carefully. "Our army is fighting in the north, not the south."

"Nevertheless, Cersei Lannister is your enemy," Nestoris mused aloud. "And Noho Dimittis informed us that she refuses to pay the debt owed to the Iron Bank, so she is _our_ enemy as well. Stannis Baratheon pledged to pay it," he said, nodding at Ser Davos, "and then he got himself killed, leaving the Iron Bank without its due. I need hardly say that the Bank would be glad of a new king—or queen—on the Iron Throne."

"A new king or queen who would inherit more than six million gold dragons in debt," Sansa said, skeptical.

"Half of that was a loan from House Lannister, not the Iron Bank," Nestoris replied, calm and courteous. "The debt owed to the Bank is less than two million, though there are several Tyroshi cartels that will come calling as well. For a new ruler determined to start his reign properly, arrangements would be made," Nestoris said calmly.

"What of Daenerys Targaryen?" asked Ser Davos. "We've all heard she's coming to Westeros at last, with Dothraki, Unsullied, and all of Cersei Lannister's southron enemies on her side. Could she not be your chosen queen?"

"Perhaps," the banker acknowledged. "But we have our doubts. Do you know how she bought her army of Unsullied?"

"We have little information, truly, more rumors than anything substantial," Maester Rodwyle replied.

"She offered one of her dragons in exchange for the army, against the counsel of her advisers. When the Unsullied were hers, she bid the dragon burn his new owner alive, and return to her."

Every Northman in the room winced. Even now, any mention of men burning alive brought to mind Lord Rickard Stark, and the murder that had birthed a rebellion.

"Even if we assume she doesn't share her father's madness, Daenerys Targaryen shares his disregard for a contract. It could be an Iron Bank emissary burning next, when she decides she would rather ignore the crown's debt. We cannot allow that."

 _This was terrible news_ , Sansa thought ruefully. _Jon had hoped to meet his aunt one day, and gain her help to fight against the Dead. If she truly burned men alive to escape paying them, what other atrocities might she commit? And the Iron Bank might try to push Jon into a war for the Iron Throne, something_ no one _needed!_

"I see why you would prefer King Jon on the Iron Throne," Ser Davos spoke at last. He'd been the least affected by the memory of Rickard Stark. "But he doesn't want it, and he won't fight for it unless there is no other way."

"The Targaryens married within their family, did they not?" Vynolis spoke up. "If King Jon should wed his aunt, and perhaps curb her more...destructive tendencies..."

"You would ask King Jon to wed a woman who _burns men alive_ when they displease her?" Maester Rodwyle protested. "Mayhaps you forget, Honorable Noros Vynolis, that our king is the legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and his claim to the Iron Throne is stronger than hers. We don't know how she will act when she receives these news—she may well attempt to kill him."

The two Braavosi looked at each other.

"We understood kinslaying was a severe offense against the gods in the Sunset Lands," Tycho Nestoris said, frowning. "But it _is_ true that House Targaryen created its own rules while it was in power."

"It is a grave offense," Ser Davos told them, subdued. "But it _does_ happen; and kings and queens consider their hands clean as long as another does the dirty work," he finished, probably thinking of Stannis and the Red Woman. Sansa had heard much about their murder of Renly from Brienne.

"My lords, we are speaking of things that may never happen," Sansa interrupted. "Now that we know how much gold Jon's family left him, we can return to the most urgent business at hand."

"Agreed, your grace," Rodwyle told her with a shallow bow.

"Very well, your grace," Tycho Nestoris agreed politely. Sansa knew they hadn't heard the last of the Bank's plans for the Iron Throne, but that discussion could wait until Jon returned.

"Honorable keyholders, have you ever heard of the glass gardens of Winterfell?"

* * *

Negotiating with the Iron Bank was hard work, and slow. Jon had inherited enough gold that there was no need to borrow more, but there were purchases to be made with it, and the Bank would act as the intermediary. At the top of Jon's list was the repair of Winterfell's glass gardens, so food could be grown there as long as the winter lasted. He'd also suggested constructing similar gardens in the other keeps around the North, though without the convenient hot springs underneath, they would need an alternate source of heat. Jon's rough sketches contained large fire pits, bread ovens, and even forges to create the necessary heat. That meant the Braavosi would need to hire craftsmen of all sorts, and pay them a premium for coming to the North in winter.

"Myrish glass has the highest quality," said Tycho Nestoris, glancing up at the broken roof of the Winterfell glass gardens.

"We don't need the highest quality glass," Maester Rodwyle replied. "As long as enough light passes through to keep our crops alive, a slight yellow tint or a few bubbles will not bother us in the slightest."

"In that case, I would recommend Tyroshi glassblowers. Their glass is quite good, but it cannot compare to Myrish glass, or even Volantene glass, so they cannot charge the same price," said Vynolis.

"Perfect," Sansa agreed, "Even better if we can hire masters with apprentices. Some might even be inclined to stay in the North."

They worked out a budget, as well as a commission for the Iron Bank. On and on they went, detailing each purchase that must be made, such as seeds from the Reach and Dorne, and the sales of Northern goods, such as ironwood.

That evening, as Sansa walked to supper with her head full of pipe repairs and winter vegetables, Bran and his two guards stopped her and Kyra.

"Bran? What is it?"

He looked unsure.

"Have you seen something?" Sansa prompted.

"Yes," he said at last, "but I'm not sure what it is. I've seen at least a dozen Stark kings and lords taking their sons down into the crypts and speaking of the King's Protection."

"Protection down in the crypts?" his sister replied, wanting clarification.

"Yes," Bran said again. "I'm having trouble following them all the way down, but I think they go through the collapsed tunnels."

"Well, if there's a protection down there, I don't know how we can reach it, Bran," Sansa told him, still a bit skeptical. What could possibly be down there, buried with the dead under centuries-old rubble?

"I'll keep trying," Bran answered, "but I really think we should clear out the rubble. We may need it, especially if Jon falls."

" _Don't say that!_ " Sansa ordered, sounding harsh to her own ears. Bran flinched.

"Don't even think it, Bran," she added, softer. "He won't fall. He promised."

She did her best to ignore her guards' pitying looks.

"Please, Sansa," Bran said, looking up at her with those Tully eyes. "This is really important. _Trust_ me."

Sansa groaned inwardly, and added another item to her list of costly repairs.

"Very well," she told her brother. "I'll have men hired to clear the tunnels."

"Thank you," Bran replied, smiling. Then his stomach rumbled, ruining the moment. The siblings laughed, and resumed their journey to the Great Hall together.

They sat at the high table with Ser Davos, Maester Rodwyle, and the bankers tonight, and none of them were feeling talkative after a day full of talk. Luckily, one of the wildlings Jon had brought had a flute, and was playing a merry tune from his seat below. One of Sansa's feet tapped along to the beat, invisible beneath her voluminous skirts and the heavy table. All she needed to be truly merry was for Jon and Arya to appear, safe and sound.

She raised her cup to her lips, about to taste the mulled wine, when a blur of something furry slammed into her arm, spilling the drink over the table and poor Ser Davos, who sat on her left.

"Kyra, what in the Seven Hells?" Sansa scolded, but the dog paid no heed. It ran to the end of the hall, growling fiercely at the serving wench that had brought the drinks to the high table.

Immediately, the six Wintersguards' hands went to their weapons of choice, and they moved to surround the woman. When another serving girl ran into the hall, shouting that Jarel the food-taster was dead, Sansa was not even surprised, though a hint of fear pooled deep in her belly.

 _Poison_ , she thought to herself. _Someone tried to poison me._

"No," the serving wench shouted, looking frantically from dog to guards and back. "Your grace, I've done nothing wrong!"

Sansa begged to differ. Through Kyra's excellent nose, she detected the stench of guilt and deception. Looking closer, Sansa noticed the wench wore at least four layers beneath her roughspun dress, marking her as a southron unaccustomed to the cold.

"Who hired you, wench?" growled Rickard Ashwood of the Wintersguard. "Speak, and we may grant you a merciful death."

"I know nothing!" she insisted, looking wildly from one face to the next. "It wasn't me, I swear it by the old gods and the new!"

"She sounds like a southron," Beren Waterman told Sansa, who agreed. Whoever had sent the wench had not taken the trouble to disguise her Fleabottom accent, which ruled out Varys and Littlefinger, if the weasel still lived.

"No," the assassin protested. "I'm from White Harbor, your grace!"

"You lie!" Wyman Manderly boomed, outraged. "No White Harbor wench would dare poison a Stark of Winterfell!"

"You were the last to handle a cup of poisoned wine," Sansa spoke, keeping her tone even and serious, as Father and Jon did when dispensing justice. "The wine-tester is dead, which rules him out, and if you're from the North, I'm a Martell," she finished in disgust.

"Lock her up. She's to be questioned, then executed," Sansa ordered.

Geisa and Artos obeyed at once, dragging the struggling woman out as the people in the hall pelted her with food and hollered at her. Shaken, Sansa looked back at the high table. Another servant had cleared the poisoned wine, and Bran and the Braavosi remained in their seats, though they'd watched with interest.

"Your old friend Cersei Lannister?" Ser Davos murmured in Sansa's ear.

She nodded tightly. There was no one else with the motive and the means, no one so clumsy and desperate to see her dead.

"We'll have to do something about her," Ser Davos pondered aloud, "but not until Jon returns."

"Yes, not until Jon returns," Sansa repeated, feeling lonely and older than her years. "But if we're very lucky, Daenerys Targaryen will reach King's Landing soon, and give her what she deserves."

"I don't know that anyone deserves to be burned alive," Rickard said, shuddering. "But the Lannister woman comes close."

"Who said anything about burning?" Sansa said wryly. "After flying so far, the dragons might need a good meal, and Cersei is richer meat than most."

Her guards laughed. Perhaps her black humor was inappropriate for a princess, but after surviving an attempt on her life, Sansa did not care. It was better to laugh than to cry in front of her people, surely?

She took her seat once more, and Bran squeezed her hand from his place on her right. Kyra, having performed her duty to her mistress, lay at her feet, gnawing at a juicy bone.

Such was the life of the regent of the North.

* * *

 **Robert – an Interlude**

The Lord of the Vale had taken to holding court in Lady Waynwood's solar, which was warm and comfortable. The room was a bit crowded when his knights entered, but that couldn't be helped. It was there that he first saw the man who had betrayed him—the man who had murdered his mother.

He entered, looking small and pitiful. One of his arms was missing, and his clothes were cheap and threadbare. There were deep shadows under his eyes, and his cheeks were hollow. Robert had never imagined his mother's husband could look so woebegone, and rejoiced inwardly.

"Uncle Petyr," he greeted, nearly choking on the polite words. "You've returned to the Vale at last."

"After a terrible ordeal, I assure you," Littlefinger answered hoarsely, "but it does my heart good to see you well, Lord Robert. You've grown."

He'd never treated Robert with so much respect, but then, the creature had had him under his thumb as well as the entire Vale. Now, shrunken and stinking and ill-looking, he seemed to cower beneath the eyes of the Lords Declarant.

Word of his treachery had spread throughout the Vale; Robert had ensured it. Littlefinger would find out soon enough how quickly his bought friends deserted him, but there was time enough for that.

"Imagine my surprise, Uncle," Robert said conversationally, "when I received a raven from my cousin Sansa, informing me that you'd plotted to kill the King in the North, our _ally_ , and admitted to pushing my mother out of the Moon Door, after preying on her until she killed my father."

What little color remained on Littlefinger's face deserted it. It was clear he'd not expected his puppet to turn on him.

"I assure you," Robert told him coldly, "were the Eyrie not shut for the winter, I would drag you up there and make you _fly_ like the sad excuse for a mockingbird you are. Unfortunately, we can't go up there until the winter passes, so we'll have to think of another execution method. I have ideas, as do my loyal knights."

"My lord," Littlefinger said weakly, "it's all a misunderstan—"

Robert stood up. "It is _not_ a misunderstanding!" he shouted, losing his—admittedly limited—patience. "That pathetic maester confessed he was poisoning me under _your_ orders, and I know _everything_. I know how my mother and father died. I know what you did to Sansa. I know what you did to my uncle Stark. I know you've been blackmailing everyone, and accumulating wealth and grain that should never have been yours."

Petyr Baelish interrupted, not by pleading or shouting, but by coughing. A violent fit made his body shake, and when he removed his hand from his face, Robert saw blood on his fingers.

"Oh, you're ill," Robert said. "Perhaps that will save us the trouble of an execution."

Lady Anya looked a bit shocked at his callousness, but Robert didn't care. This piece of filth did not deserve his compassion.

Lord Nestor seemed to agree.

"Here's what we're going to do, Lord Baelish," Robert informed him. "We're going to lock you up, in a place only the _loyal_ people in this room know about. You're going to tell us every last secret you have, until we know how to return every ward and find every sack of flour you've squirreled away. And then, when you've outlived your usefulness, you will die."

Baelish looked at him in horror. A trickle of blood still remained on his chin.

"Get him out of my sight."

* * *

Thanks for reading, everyone! I really appreciate your comments.

This chapter was mostly much-needed housekeeping, but it's a short break in between the more exciting stuff. I just needed to establish a few things, like a path to surviving independently for the North, the beginning of the crypts mystery, the end of Littlefinger, the Iron Bank situation (obviously I'm not following the show there. Why would the Iron Bank give Cersei money to hire the Golden Company, when she's refusing to pay them in the books?)

For the next few chapters, we'll visit each of the battlegrounds, from Riverrun to the Wall and back down to Oldtown, so stay tuned for that.

Also, to the anon who said Dany wasn't fireproof: that's why her hair was burned when she got off Drogon. And I know she's a great conqueror and not so great at actually ruling, so she's surrounding herself with people who can help, like Doran and Tyrion. Even then, her mistakes could come back and bite her, as you see above. The Iron Bank already mistrusts her, and if rumors spread of all the cruel things she did—crucifying people, burning all the khals, etc...who's going to want her for a queen? Admittedly, Cersei is just as bad, but the devil you know and all that.


	25. Rise and Fall, Arya II

Hello, gang! I'm not dead, though not too long ago I was in serious pain and wishing I was. Hooray for sciatic nerve injuries! To be honest, the pain helped me get into Arya's head more easily, so I don't know what that means going forward.

So, Season 8 started and suddenly I got a flood of new subscribers. Welcome, all! I will continue to ignore the show after S6 (except to make fun of it), and do my own thing. If that's your jam, pull up a chair. This chapter has something you will recognize from _A Dance With Dragons_ (the Faceless mask procedure). I didn't make any of that up, if you're a curious show watcher.

On we go!

* * *

 **Arya II**

Arya and her escorts were a day's ride from Riverrun, or so the Greatjon said. After years of surviving on her own, it chafed to have Ser Wylis and Lord Umber so close, always inquiring after her, forcing her to stop and rest, and being generally annoying. _She wasn't helpless_ , Arya wanted to shout. _She'd done just fine alone, she didn't need to be coddled like a babe in arms!_

And yet Arya held her tongue. If nothing else, the House of Black and White had taught her patience, and instead of insulting her brother's loyal bannermen, she saved her breath. She knew a pair of warriors could come in handy in several scenarios. Unlike Nymeria and her pack of smaller wolves, her human companions could use their hands, read maps, and if needed, ride for help among Robb's former bannermen in the Riverlands.

The trio did not fear getting caught in the woods. The wolves had chased away or devoured any enemy that came too close, making the journey quick and painless. They lit fires each evening and cooked whatever meat the wolves had caught; if the hunting was poor, they toasted some bread and cheese from the supplies Arya had stolen from the Freys, or nibbled on some sausage.

She knew it bothered the men to be so dependent on wild beasts, but it was for their own good. Lord Umber and Ser Wylis had tried to split guard duty among the two of them, but they still tired easily after their long captivity. More than once, the chosen guard had fallen asleep, and the wolves had done the rest, chasing away the curious and the dangerous.

This night, Ser Wylis skinned a brace of half-starved hares, caught by Nymeria's pack. The Greatjon was sorting through the belongings of two dead Lannister soldiers, also caught by the wolf pack. As the big man told Arya, it couldn't hurt to have extra steel and supplies, and the westerlanders were better equipped than most.

"Right," said the Umber, reappearing by the fire with his haul. He'd taken three daggers, a sturdy bow, and a full quiver of arrows, along with a rope of sausages. "How is your aim, Princess?"

"I was a good shot," Arya replied, thinking it over, "but I haven't used a bow in years."

He held out the bow and quiver. "I know these wolves are your most dangerous weapon," he said with a crooked grin, "but it can't hurt to have a spare."

Arya took it. Her two companions often forgot that she had Needle—and knew how to use it—but she had no objection to carrying a ranged weapon as well.

"Let's go over our plan again," Ser Wylis suggested. "There's little room for error, if you'll pardon me saying it, your grace."

The Greatjon huffed, sitting heavily on a fallen log. "I can't argue with that. And yet, we've seen enough oathbreakers in this war that I'd trust a pack of wolves over human allies any day, Wylis."

The White Harbor knight unrolled the map he and the Greatjon had been working on, showing Riverrun in detail. Arya was to wear the face of Whalen Frey, the man responsible for killing Grey Wind, and younger brother of Lame Lothar. She would gain entrance to the castle, and immediately begin to weaken the Freys from the inside after spinning a tale of the horrors at the Twins. Nymeria would alert the Northmen when their time came to sneak inside and join the battle.

"I dislike sending you in there alone, your grace," the Greatjon rumbled, not for the first time. "But you did take the Twins without a single wound or casualty, even to the wolves!"

Arya smirked, leaning back against a tree-trunk. "I did better than that. I caught Petyr Baelish in his web of lies and dosed him with widow's blood. The two-timing son of a poxy whore will never harm another Stark."

The two men stared blankly at her, and a long silence fell, broken only by the crackling of their campfire. At first, she thought it was the cruelty of her chosen poison that had shocked them, or perhaps her crude language?

"Petyr Baelish?" Ser Wylis asked finally. "Wasn't that the boy who dueled your uncle for Lady Catelyn's hand?"

"Yes," Arya explained. "He also tried to poison my cousin Robert Arryn, betrayed my father in King's Landing, and if the tales are true, attempted to kill my brother Jon as well. I wouldn't be surprised if _Littlefinger_ were the one responsible for old Lord Arryn's death, the one that drove my father south and started this whole mess," she finished, struck by the idea. It fit, and it made a certain sense when she remembered some of her ridiculous cousin's letters to his devoted _uncle_ , and the strange conversation she'd overheard in the Red Keep.

"When I last saw him he'd run afoul of my brother's direwolf, and no one deserves it more."

"If he's guilty of all that, then certainly, your grace," the Greatjon answered, wide-eyed. "I'm surprised you let him walk out of the Twins."

"A quick death was too merciful for the likes of him," Arya answered, shrugging. "I'm sure my cousin Robert and the Knights of the Vale will think of a fitting end for the sniveling snake."

She rolled over onto her bedroll, ignoring the uncomfortable looks the men were sharing over the fire. Arya knew she wasn't a stupid little girl anymore, and she wasn't a good girl, or even an innocent.

Seven hells, could _anyone_ be that in this world? And if two men who had witnessed the worst atrocity ever committed in the sight of the gods didn't understand, _who would?_

 _...I see you, wolf child...blood child...begone from here, dark heart, begone!_

It gnawed at her daily, knowing that she'd chosen to avenge Robb and Mother instead of running to Jon, her _living_ family. Once, she wouldn't have doubted for a second that Jon would know her and love her still, dark heart and all. Now, Arya wasn't so sure. As for Sansa...well, they'd never seen eye to eye, and if Sansa didn't love her, that wouldn't hurt as much. As long as she had Jon and Nymeria, Arya would be fine.

 _Thinking of home is pointless_ , Arya told herself viciously, wiping at a stray tear before the men could see. _There is a job to do first, and a girl—Arya Stark of Winterfell—will do it._ These Freys deserved the gift, and Arya would give it to them gladly.

She closed her eyes, and recited her prayer in her head. It had grown much shorter after her visit to the Twins.

 _Cersei. Ilyn Payne. Gregor Clegane. The Red Woman. Beric Dondarrion. Thoros of Myr. Black Walder Frey. Lame Lothar Frey. Emmon Frey. Raymund Frey. Edwyn Frey._

A distant wolf howled, singing her to sleep.

* * *

Ser Wylis woke Arya the next morning, apologetic but insistent.

"You looked so peaceful that it seemed a shame to disturb you," he told her, handing her a plate of food, "but we'd best get going, your grace."

Arya couldn't remember the last time she'd been with such a fatherly figure. Ternesio Terys the sailor, perhaps, but never with _her_. The Kindly Man had been mild-mannered and kind without any paternal affection, in that detached way the House of Black and White loved so much. But Ser Wylis, who obviously missed his daughters, made her uncomfortable in a way the Faceless never had.

She scarfed down her sausage, hardly noticing what it was. The food they'd stolen from the Twins was running low; they'd eaten well to replenish the men's strength, and planned to stock up for the journey home in Riverrun. It hardly mattered now. Changing faces was not easy on the belly, especially if the owner of the face had died a violent death.

Arya had barely finished her food when she ran to the campfire and picked up a discarded tin cup. Ignoring the men's questions, she disappeared into the trees, searching for the nearby creek. It was only a few steps away, and she needed some privacy, as well as fresh water, to make her potion. She crouched at the muddy water's edge, rinsing the cup and her special dagger. The water was icy cold.

"Lady Arya, what are you—" the Greatjon huffed, exasperated. Wylis Manderly was not far behind. Then they saw the knife in her hand. "Your grace, no!"

Arya whirled around. "How did you _think_ the Faceless worked? If you don't want to see it, look away."

Without waiting for a reply, Arya turned back to her task. She reached into her bag and pulled out the special powders, a small silver spoon for mixing, and a tiny set of scales. The nearest large rock would serve well enough for a table. Quickly, with all the efficiency she'd learned from the Waif, she mixed the potion that would help her new face adhere, and come alive. She didn't know if the men had stayed, but at least they were quiet.

Once the potion was finished, Arya removed her shirt and set it aside, to keep it clean. She bound her breasts flat with a length of linen, biting her lip at the pain and thinking jealously of the Waif's childlike body. Then she reached into her bag of faces, some stolen from the House, and some collected at the Twins. Whalen Frey came out, thick eyebrows against pale skin and an empty mouth that had died gasping for breath. She placed the face on the flat rock, where she could reach it easily once her blood obscured her vision.

Arya sat on the cold ground. "Don't interfere, no matter what you see or hear," she warned the men. "Or the magic won't take. I'll be fine."

She braced herself, and picked up the small dagger. It was a beautiful thing, with a handle that was half black ebony, and half white weirwood, like the doors of the temple. Runes in a mysterious forgotten language decorated both sides. She kept her body as still as the earth beneath her, and only her left arm moved.

Arya cut carefully, letting the sharp dagger kiss her hairline, cheeks, and jaw. She heard one of the men gasp, and ignored him, letting the dagger circle her face until the blood had formed a vivid, stinging mask. She picked up the cup and drank the potion, letting the bitingly cold, tart taste linger on her tongue. It was a shocking contrast to the warm, salty blood trickling past her lips.

Carefully, Arya placed Whalen Frey's face over her own, letting her blood soak into the face and give it life. As the traitor's last moments overwhelmed her, Arya leaned forward, choking on nothing and fighting a silent scream. For a minute, she saw herself in her Bella disguise, looming tall and beautiful over the dying murderer as he suffocated.

 _This is for Grey Wind_ , _you treacherous piece of Frey shit,_ the servant girl had told him, and Whalen Frey had taken that to his watery grave. _Rot in the Seven Hells!_

The faint memory vanished, and Arya breathed deep once more. Quickly, she rinsed the blood that had dripped down her neck and chest in the creek, shivering, and dressed again. Whalen Frey had been dark-haired, so Arya had no need of wigs or hair dye. No one would get close enough to notice his brown eyes were now Stark gray.

Arya tied her hair back in a man's horsetail, then pulled on a stolen Frey doublet and cloak over her shirt. She was shorter than the man had been, and skinnier, but that was alright. Had she been at the House of Black and White, or even at Izembaro's theater, she would have had an array of solutions, from special boots with hidden heels, to suits of stuffed lambswool to give her a belly and fatter thighs. It didn't matter as much here. The plague would explain Whalen's weight loss, and the horse would hide her lack of height until she was inside Riverrun.

"I'm ready," she said.

Her two human companions looked shaken, but they nodded in agreement. There was an unbearably sad expression in Ser Wylis' eyes, as if he'd just watched his Wynafryd die. The Greatjon didn't look much better. Arya ignored them both. They knew what she was, and what she'd done. They'd been pleased enough to be freed from their cell!

They packed up their campsite and prepared the horses, still silent. The Greatjon led them toward Riverrun, with Arya, Ser Wylis, and the wolves following in a single file as the trail narrowed. The sun rose, weak and pale behind dark gray storm clouds. The somber mood of their party was even darker.

When they stopped to make water, Arya had had enough.

"Whatever you two are thinking, just _say_ it," she snapped. "Do you think I'm a monster? I already know I am. Do you think I'm a precious southron _lady_ who needs to be wrapped in silk and hidden in Winterfell while her brother's killers run free? I won't let you! So what is it?"

Ser Wylis waited until he'd laced up his breeches to turn around and regard her with steely eyes.

"I'm a foolish man, your grace. I've heard tales of the Faceless Men all my life, and you are living proof that they're more than tales." He paused. "I can't help but wonder the price one must pay in exchange for such powers, and the desperation that would bring a beloved daughter of the North to that place, after the whole of the North failed to bring you home."

Arya's hand clenched around Needle. She _hadn't_ paid the price. She'd escaped before they could force her to give herself up for good.

"I think your stubborn ox of a grandfather would have wept like a child, to see what came of his ambitions," the Greatjon added, thoughtful. "If he'd known that three of his children would perish in the South, his grandchildren would be murdered and kidnapped and scattered, his home would burn, and the North fall to Boltons, he would have rebuilt Moat Cailin and closed the Neck, Aerys be damned! All of the evils that came to House Stark and the North came from King's Landing, first with the mad Targaryens, and then that useless oaf Robert. We should have let them all rot after the Rebellion!"

Arya shrugged. She'd found Robert craven and useless ever since he'd let Lady die. "And this is why you're all gloomy? After all these years?"

Ser Wylis was still looking at her with that fatherly sorrow. She unsheathed her Needle and held it out.

"Jon gave this to me, before he left for the Wall," she told them. "No one else in my family would have, but he always knew me best. The Faceless Men tried to make me get rid of it. They told me their god would take all of me, everything I was, and there was no room for Arya Stark's things. And for a while, I listened, because I had nowhere else to go. But I didn't give up my sword; I only hid it. I _never_ forgot that I was Arya Stark of Winterfell. I was an acolyte in the House of Black and White, nothing more."

Arya put her sword away, and mounted her horse. "If Grandfather Rickard weeps, let him weep with pride that his grandchildren took back Winterfell from the Boltons, and avenged the Red Wedding. Let him be happy that his family _survived_ , despite everything. Now can we _please_ go to Riverrun?"

The two men agreed, appeased for now. There was no need to tell them that she'd killed a priestess of the Many-Faced God, and that the temple might send another to give Arya Stark the gift at any moment. That was her own burden to bear; for now, there were others overdue for a meeting with Death.

* * *

At the northern edge of the woods surrounding Riverrun, the men dismounted and the wolves stopped, waiting for Nymeria's command. Arya went on alone, riding past fallow fields and farmers' homes in the dying light. The afternoon was fading when she reached the edge of the Tumblestone. The Water Gate loomed ahead, guarded by half a dozen men.

"Who goes there?" called the watchman.

"Ser Whalen Frey," Arya replied, pitching her voice lower. "I bring news from the Twins!"

There was a small commotion above her, as the men debated and one ran off. Arya dismounted, and waited until a new man's face appeared. He was a fat fellow, with a stupid pointy beard and hair as dark as Whalen's. She couldn't see his legs, but the man walked with a heavy limp. She strongly suspected that this was Lame Lothar.

He took a Myrish lens from the watchmen and peered down at Arya.

"Let him in, that's my brother, alright," Lothar said to the others. To Arya, he called out "Half a moment, Whalen! We'll send a rowboat out to meet you."

Slowly, the portcullis of her grandfather's castle rose. This entrance was always submerged, making the rowboat necessary for those who didn't want to swim. Ser Wylis and the Greatjon would to ride around the castle to one of the other gates, which would make for an easier entry for them and the wolves.

The boat approached, carrying the man who had plotted to kill her family. She wished she could stab him now, instead of pretending to like him, but then she'd never get inside. _Wait_ , she told herself firmly. _The moment will come._ She didn't recognize the other men on the boat.

"Get in here, little brother!" he called, and Arya led her horse to the water. The poor beast wanted nothing to do with the boat, but she stayed firm. One of the other Freys took a carrot out of his pocket and held it out, tempting the horse to step all the way on. All of the men (and Arya) picked up oars, and then they were off.

"Hello, Lothar," Arya said at last, grateful that the poor light would hide the differences between the man's brother and her mask.

"What brings you here, you little rascal? Did you tire of the Twins at last? We've had no word for at least a fortnight; has one of the girls locked herself in the rookery in a fit of pique?"

"That's what I came to tell you," Arya replied, trying to sound sad. "Things are not well at home, not at all. There's a plague of some sort. I was out hunting when it happened, and now the place is locked up tighter than Father's purse-strings."

Lothar swore. "Leonella?"

Arya shook her head slowly. "She's got it. Your girls, Sylwa, all of them are bedridden. Ours were still alive when I spoke to them last, but the plague took Jammos and at least twenty others. Who knows how many we lost while I was riding here?"

"And the old man? It would be just like him to outlive all of his children!"

The rowboat passed into the castle, and the guards above gave the order to lower the portcullis.

"Father is gone."

Lame Lothar's eyes bulged, and Arya heard the other men gasp in surprise. " _What?_ "

"He's dead, Lothar. Lord Walder Frey is dead." Arya blessed the mummers and priests who had taught her to hide her true feelings. Someday she might be able to say _Walder Frey is dead_ without joy, but today was not that day.

"Fuck me," Lothar said breathlessly. "He finally went. You know what that means, don't you?"

Arya shrugged. "Edwyn is the new lord?"

"Not for long. Black Walder's already offed Ryman; I'd be surprised if Edwyn lasts a fortnight!"

They reached the landing. Arya leaped out of the boat and took her horse's reins again. The beast was eager to step on dry land; it followed her eagerly to the lower bailey. Lothar limped after her, quiet and thoughtful.

"May I take your horse, ser?" asked a timid groom, approaching from the lower stables.

"Yes, take him," Lothar ordered carelessly. Arya took her saddlebags, then let the groom lead her horse away. "Whalen and I have more important things to do. Come, brother," he said, slinging an arm around Arya's shoulders. "We need to see the others. Gods, you look thin," he added, noticing Arya's slighter figure. "Never mind, we'll feed you up. The damned trouts were set up for a siege; there's food aplenty."

"I _am_ hungry," Arya replied, and she wasn't even lying. She'd been riding for hours.

She let Lothar steer her up the stairs to the upper bailey, then into the Great Hall. There was a great deal of noise and light coming from inside, and she guessed the Freys within would be half-drunk and senseless. Good. They would be easier to kill that way.

As she entered, she saw not Freys, but Lannisters. Certainly, the rat-faced men eating at the high table could only be Freys, but the men-at-arms at the low tables were armed like westerlanders, and Arya saw many with golden heads.

"What are all these Lannisters doing here?" she asked, looking at Lothar for clarification.

"Bastards," spat Lothar. "Emmon's bitch of a wife thinks we Freys can't handle this castle on our own, so she brought all these golden-haired shits into our castle. We were doing just _fine_ on our own," he added, sounding as petulant as a child. "Now we have to break up fights between them all the time. They think they're better than we are, and our boys disagree."

"Whalen, what in the seven hells are you doing here?" called out the wiry Frey with the thick, black beard. Arya assumed this must be Black Walder.

"Let him eat, he's had a long ride and he's as thin as a reed," Lame Lothar said, giving Arya a heavy pat on the back. "Whalen says there's bad news from home." Immediately, a servant approached with a plate of food. Arya forgot about politeness and dug in, famished.

"Oh?" said a woman in an elegant crimson gown. Arya peered at her, and saw a fat, wrinkled version of Cersei. This must be Genna Lannister, the new lady of the castle and wife of Emmon Frey. The man sat beside her in the lord's chair, looking insignificant, but puffed up with pride in the castle he'd stolen.

"Father is dead," Lothar told the others. "There's sickness at the Twins, and it's taken him along with a score of others."

Another Frey dropped his goblet. It hit the table with a loud thunk.

"You can't be serious! The old man is immortal, surely," the nameless Frey said with wide eyes.

"It's true," Arya told them, pitching her voice low. "Joyeuse and her babe are dead, and Father as well. There will be no ninth Lady Frey. Most of the family is abed, my wife and daughters included. And Lothar's."

"Gods help Maester Brenett," said Black Walder with a sardonic grin. "Our family is too much for one healer to handle." He took a swig of ale, and elbowed the silent man on his left. "Well, _Lord_ Edwyn? What say you?"

Edwyn Frey looked like he'd received a death sentence, not a title. Arya knew from whispers around the Twins that Black Walder had bedded his brothers' wives, and possibly killed his elder brother and father. She was sure Edwyn knew it, too.

"I suppose we must go home," he said seriously. "I'll pack my things and ride to the Twins in the morning. Raymund, will you come?"

"Aye," Raymund replied, and Arya sharpened her gaze. _This_ was the monster who had slit her mother's throat!

"We'll go together," Black Walder said, too cheerful by far. "We must give the old man a proper send-off, eh? And as soon as your Janyce has recovered, you'll need to work on that male heir, big brother."

"And displace you as my successor? I'm surprised, Walder," Edwyn replied, showing more spine than Arya had expected from him.

"Ah, but if Black Walder were lord, he'd have to take a wife at last," Lothar said, grinning. "He's as afraid of marriage as a young maid!"

Black Walder's grin turned nasty. "And what would _you_ know of young maids?"

Lothar clutched his walking stick so hard that Arya thought it might shatter. "Are you questioning my wife's honor?" he yelled, spit flying from his mouth.

"Stop this nonsense, all of you!" shouted Lady Genna, rising from her chair. "For shame; your father has just died! Show some respect and be silent!"

Surprisingly, they obeyed. They ate in silence for a while, until Lame Lothar turned to Arya. "Are you finished stuffing your face, brother? I'll show you to the family wing."

"Alright," Arya replied. She picked up her packs and followed Lothar, noting with disgust how every trout carving and tapestry had been ruined with crude chisel marks, or stained and ripped beyond repair. As if that would erase centuries of history!

She took a candle as they left the hall for the keep. Night had fallen while she ate, and there was no moon. A more perfect night for sneaking and killing was impossible.

Lothar sighed as they walked through the small godswood. "If we didn't have all of these damned Lannisters in the barracks, I'd be tempted to take this castle for myself," he confessed. "You'd help me, wouldn't you?"

"Of course," Arya replied automatically. "Why would I want the golden pig lording it over us?"

"Ha!" Lame Lothar answered, huffing a bit as they climbed the stairs. "Yes, she's perfect for Emmon, isn't she? He'll talk until he's blue in the face about how he's the new Lord of Riverrun and please, bend over and worship his greatness or he'll be disappointed! The fucker was afraid of his own shadow until the mighty Tywin Lannister died, and now he thinks he's Aegon the Conqueror. You should have heard him during the siege! _Don't damage the walls, that's my castle now! Don't break down the doors, that's my castle you're attacking!_ I'm heartily sick of them both, and if I hear _The Rains of Castamere_ one more time, I swear I'll kill him."

 _You liked the song well enough when you used it as a signal to murder_ , Arya thought, but said nothing.

They reached a door next to another ruined tapestry of the Tully sigil, and Lothar opened it. "This is you, brother. I'm next door, but don't wake me if you need something. Go and bother Emmon and Genna, since they like being in charge so much."

"Will you ride home with Edwyn and Black Walder tomorrow?" Arya asked, dropping her bags on the bed and lighting the candles around the room.

"I'd rather ride with you in a few days, after you've had a rest," Lothar replied. "If I go with _them_ I'll witness a murder, and I'll never make it home unless I kill Black Walder first. Riding with you is safer."

"Right," Arya replied, hiding a smile. _That's what you think_. "In that case, I'm going to bed. Sleep well, Lothar."

"And you, Whalen."

He limped out of the room and closed the door behind him.

 _Finally!_

She had made it. She was inside Riverrun with the men who had killed her family, desecrated Robb's body, and thrown her mother's corpse in the river. Now it was time for revenge.

Arya locked the door to her chamber; she wanted no disturbances until she was ready, and living at the Twins had taught her that Freys were a nosy bunch. Once she'd ensured that no one would bother her, she undressed, removing her brown and green hunter's clothes with the Frey sigil. Instead, she pulled on a pair of black woolen breeches, a black shirt, and a black doublet from her pack. She pulled dark gray socks on, and thought with grim humor that they spoiled the effect; if she'd had black ones, she could have passed for Brave Danny Flint. Black, soft-soled slippers completed her dress.

The weapons came next. She slid the small vials containing her poisons into a special holster at her wrist. Littlefinger's Valyrian steel dagger and sheath went into her left sock. An ordinary dagger went into her other sock, another into her belt, along with a set of lock-picks. She stuck a fourth blade into the bindings under her shirt. On her back, Arya carried the bow and quiver the Greatjon had stolen for her, and a rope and grappling hook, for emergencies. Needle would stay here, for now. Whalen Frey had never owned such a blade, and she had enough steel for tonight.

She used the remaining time to warg into Nymeria, using her paws to write short messages to the Greatjon and Ser Wylis. The men watched the direwolf writing in awe, and asked as many questions about the castle and its garrison as she could answer through her stubborn wolf. Nymeria's pack patrolled, searching for any humans unwise enough to leave the castle.

Arya emerged two hours later, once the noise outside her window had dwindled. Within the family wing, she found Ser Emmon and his wife, sound asleep and snoring in the Lord's chamber. By now, Arya had killed enough men to do it silently, and Emmon Frey was no different. He didn't scream or call out, but as her dagger opened his throat, his snoring ceased forever.

Lady Genna didn't wake. Arya stood above her in the dark, seeing Cersei Lannister under those golden curls, and wavered. The woman hadn't done anything to the Starks, as far as she knew. But she was Tywin Lannister's sister, and even if she hadn't known of his plans for the Red Wedding, she had benefited from them!

 _Mother and Father and Bran and Rickon were innocent_ , Arya thought, her dagger trembling in her hand. _Nobody cared about that, and they killed them anyway._

 _I can't leave her alive_ , Arya reasoned. _I need the westerlanders and the Freys at each other's throats, at least, the ones who survive this first night. Fear cuts deeper than swords._

But her hand wouldn't move. She hadn't killed an innocent since that stable boy in the Red Keep, and he hadn't been all that innocent; he'd been one of Cersei's spies. She had poisoned the women and children at the Twins, enough to make them ill, but the only lives she'd taken had been those who had ordered or carried out the Red Wedding. Even the Faceless Men hadn't taken that from her; they'd tried, sending her to kill Lady Crane, and Arya had failed.

The woman on the bed rolled over, and quite abruptly, Genna Frey was awake. It was too dark for her to see Arya in her black clothing, but the dagger, glinting in the faint starlight and dripping with her husband's blood, was all too visible. She opened her mouth to scream, and Arya struck one quick, devastating blow.

 _Valar morghulis_.

Lady Genna slumped back onto her bed, her throat sliced to the bone as Catelyn Stark's had been. Arya ran out of the room, eager to forget what she'd just done. If she gave it any thought at all, she would lose her nerve _and_ her chance to avenge her family!

 _Cersei. Ilyn Payne. Gregor Clegane. The Red Woman. Beric Dondarrion. Thoros of Myr. Black Walder Frey. Lame Lothar Frey. Emmon Frey. Raymund Frey. Valar morghulis!_

* * *

No, Arya is not going to kill every single soldier in Riverrun by herself. Never use the same party trick twice!

Next up we'll go back to the Wall to see how Jon is doing.

Thanks for reading, and have a wonderful day!


End file.
